


Vive La College

by dinolaur



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:04:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 47,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinolaur/pseuds/dinolaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Les Amis, just your average band of college students looking to find their niche, change the world, and get drunk at the bars. And hopefully make it out of there with something more impressive than a 2.3 GPA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OK. So. I've been having a lot of fun with this, because it's actually gotten me writing again. Mostly I've been writing everything via snippets, just ideas that popped into my head and then I arranged them in a loose time line later. A lot of the kids' adventures will be based off things me and my friends did in college.
> 
> We're going to start off here with everything that I've written for the kids' freshman year. It's the year I have the least for, so I figure, why the hell not. Just FYI, Cosette isn't going to appear until sophomore year, in the first of the next round of updates, but I've gone ahead and included her in the tagging because we all know she's coming. 
> 
> I apologize if everything reads slow and weird at the beginning. I am terrible with intros, and this is the first thing I've ever done for Les Mis, so it probably doubly reflects that. But other than that, I hope y'all enjoy!

The group is as follows. Enjolras, double majoring in the honors programs in both political science and pre-law with history and philosophy minors—yes, he is an overachiever—is the undisputed leader. He rolls his eyes when his friends call him that, but there is no question that all of them are gravitating around Enjolras. He’s a magnificent presence, very handsome with golden curls and sky blue eyes. When he speaks, he commands the attention of everyone around him. He’s smart and extremely dedicated to his life plans and goals, which involve a lot of social change, to the point that the others joke that he wouldn’t understand normal social interaction if it bit him on the ass. Enjolras is deliberate. He doesn’t smoke, has never touched drugs, drinks rarely, and the others aren’t entirely sure that he isn’t still a virgin.

His closest friend—and by closest, the one who is most like him—is Combeferre. Combeferre is also in the honors program and studies philosophy, which his parents complain is a useless degree, but it’s his passion. He can quote an offensive amount of monologues from long dead Greek philosophers word for word, and will if given an opportunity. He’s very focused, although even he can be a bit put off with the single-mindedness that Enjolras displays in regards to his work. He’s in nearly all of the same academic clubs and organizations as Enjolras, serving as vice president under him.

Always with Enjolras and Combeferre are Marius and Courfeyrac. The two are roommates and make for an interesting pair. Marius, on his own, is a lively and interesting guy. He’s kind and friendly and always willing to go out of his way to help out a friend. However, stick him around women, or really any type of sexual encounter, and his freckled face turns bright red, and he trips over his words. This happens often, as it is rare that Courfeyrac manages to spend a night alone in his bed. Courfeyrac doesn’t look it, with his mop of dark curls and sweet, child-like smile, but he’s fairly close to a sex fanatic. He’s not crude about it, and he’s never pulled a scam to get someone to sleep with him. He’s very upfront with people who catch his eyes, tells them he’s not looking for any sort of relationship but rather just a bit of fun. And almost all of them fall over him.

Always a step behind Marius is Éponine. They’ve known each other since high school, and Marius seems forever oblivious about it, but Éponine has a massive crush on him. Éponine is razor sharp, and there is absolutely no one on Earth who can pull a fast one over on her. She’s fiercely protective of the boys in her group, and is always the first one up and ready to throw down if someone tries to mess with them. Unlike nearly all the rest of them, she comes from a shit family—her parents mostly don’t notice that they have children unless they need something from them—and is on just about every scholarship she could get her hands on to help pay tuition, plus financial aid for costs of living.

Others include Joly, a pre-med student who is a massive hypochondriac—the rest of them are just waiting for his first day working in a hospital; they’re all planning on going with him to see how long it takes him to run screaming from the building—and his roommate Jean Prouvaire. Jehan, as he’d called once people get to know him better, is a poet at heart and can always be counted on to gush romantically—often about Courfeyrac’s hair, as they tend to fall into bed together at least once a month. Then there’s Bousset, who is a hulking, bald guy who looks like he could rip your head off but is really a giant softy, Feuilly, and Bahorel, who actually will rip your head off if given the opportunity.

They’re all a tight knit group, all having come to know each other through various classes or organizations with Enjolras. And then, there’s Grantaire. Grantaire is an art student that they meet around the middle of the spring semester of their first year. He’s a notorious drunk, and he is Enjolras’s unofficial sworn enemy. He is the antithesis of the driven and focused leader of the group. He lacks direction and conviction, and stands opposite to Enjolras on every issue. Or, to be completely fair, he doesn’t actually stand for anything. He just likes arguing with Enjolras and trying to work him up. Grantaire doesn’t stand for anything because he doesn’t actually believe in anything. He’s an impossible cynic.

Of the group, he connects best with Éponine, who has seen too much of the darker sides of humanity to be as optimistic as the others. There’s also the fact that the both of them are forever pining for people who don’t seem to notice. But at least Éponine still has a shot. Marius, although semi-hopeless around women, still has a sex drive. Grantaire is far more unlucky in his situation, because Enjolras is very plainly married to his life plan. And then there’s that whole pretty close to hating his guts thing.

``

Most everything that happens to them happens at the bar. Well, it’s not really a bar. It’s supposed to be a café, but there are too many college kids in and out of there, and the owners weren’t ones to pass up an opportunity to get extra income. Because, really, Grantaire alone probably makes the liquor license well worth it.

The bar isn’t really conducive to a decent study environment, but that’s where they find themselves more often than not, and the owners have a soft spot enough for them that they pretty much have free reign of the back room. There are tables and mismatched chairs and stools and a slightly ratty loveseat. They’ve thrown up their own posters on the walls, and the owners even let them bring in their own beers—foreign, almost unheard of brands—provided they put up a cover for it.

Enjolras would never admit to going to that place for the company, and half the time he’s convinced that the company is absolutely not worth it. But they do make a good coffee that’s already fair-trade before he starts frequenting the place, and they don’t scoff at him when he insists on vegan options being added to the menu.

It’s actually Enjolras who starts them all coming. That’s back before the place got turned into a bar. He’d gotten fairly settled with it before bringing Marius, who in turn is responsible for Éponine. Everyone else just sort of floods in after that, and it becomes a thing, a loud, crowded, distracting sort of thing.

The loudness—and rambunctiousness—is in no small part thanks to Grantaire. Enjolras is never really sure how Grantaire ended up in their circle, but he’s always around, and he’s always drunk. Enjolras finds Grantaire infinitely infuriating. The man lives to play devil’s advocate, and Enjolras is his apparent favorite target. He can always be counted on to pipe up from his corner when there is serious discussion going on with some quip about how everything is fruitless and pointless and it’s best to just have a drink. He doesn’t care about anything or anyone, as far as Enjolras can tell, but somehow everyone seems to like him well enough. He’s got a sense of humor, one that Enjolras doesn’t particularly share, but the others like it. So he stays.

It’s not that Enjolras hates Grantaire, far from it. Grantaire is smart and sharp—when he isn’t purposefully dulling his mind with copious amounts of alcohol—and a very good debate partner. He takes no prisoners when he gets into it, and Enjolras appreciates that, if only because it forces him to remain at the top of his game. He’s got dreams and plans, and being anything less than the best will just be a roadblock into gaining position to get the changes he so greatly desires.

He knows that his friends think him a bit cold and detached, but Enjolras just likes to consider himself focused. After all, big plans. 


	2. Chapter 2

This Enjolras kid is simultaneously the most irritating and intriguing thing Grantaire has ever had the misfortune to come across. He is Grantaire’s exact opposite. He’s focused and driven, serious and sober. He holds himself up like a king and looks like an angel. It’s ridiculous. Absolutely fucking ridiculous.

Enjolras is prone to speeches, long monologues about social justice and freedoms and equality. The thing about it, Grantaire’s seen people go off on rants before, politicians, professors, students, and protesters, but none of them have ever looked like Enjolras does. He throws his everything into his words. He believes them with every fiery fiber of his being. Grantaire watches him as he speaks, and he’s glowing.

Grantaire is drawn to him like a moth to the flame, a terrible, burning flame that is constantly threatening to engulf Grantaire in its splendor. He’s something spectacular and pure, and Grantaire does not understand him. He doesn’t understand this fervor and dedication. He’s not sure that he particularly wants to understand. All he wants to do is watch Enjolras.

He doesn’t want to call it love, because Jesus Christ, he just met the guy, but he’s completely enchanted. He can’t get Enjolras out of his head. He tries to drown the feelings in wine, but it doesn’t do any good. He’s still in his head, voice still in his ears. He’s just about all that Grantaire can think of. Grantaire has no beliefs or convictions, but he can’t help but admire the strength with which they exist in Enjolras.

For his part, Enjolras just seems to regard Grantaire with a barely contained sense of distain. They are opposites, and Enjolras isn’t the sort of person who would suffer someone so aimless. Grantaire knows what he is, and he knows that on his own, he could never hope to capture Enjolras’s attentions. He knows that he has nothing to offer. He’s just a drunken art student, and Enjolras has dreams of changing the world.

The first time Enjolras really focuses his attention on Grantaire, it’s in response to his rebuttal of a point Enjolras had been making. He doesn’t really plan to say anything; it just slips out. But Enjolras turns those bright eyes to him, and he can’t help it. He just keeps arguing, keeps insisting the pointlessness, keeps reiterating the darker nature of humankind that Enjolras doesn’t want to acknowledge.

And all of that fever bright passion is turned in Grantaire’s direction, and it washes over Grantaire like a drug, and he’s hooked. He can’t have Enjolras’s affections—because what would an angel want with scum like him—but he can easily stir up that passionate fury. He’d rather have that than nothing at all.

It’s like that for a long time, months and months. Enjolras only ever seems to see him if he’s piping up to start a fight or if he’s drunk enough that it’s testing the limits of Enjolras’s patience. He takes it all, because he’s addicted.

Eventually, things start to mellow out some. They get to know each other better, get used to each other, and start being able to talk about things that aren’t political or social issues. It’s even more intoxicating than before. Because Enjolras is just as beautiful when he’s got that little half smile stretching his lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Although he privately maintains that Enjolras is an angel, otherworldly, Apollo reborn, he starts to be able to see him as a man too.

He sees the little emotions, the affection he shows his friends. He sees the concerned glances when they’re stressed and over-worked, the proud smiles when they display their achievements, and the light touches when they’re upset. He sees the way that Enjolras is the first to stand up to protect them—fierce Éponine less than a half step behind him.

It just makes the affection swell up even more in Grantaire’s chest, and, being Grantaire, he can’t help but to call Enjolras out on it. “So, you aren’t made of marble after all,” he snickers.

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but there is a small, fond smile there, and Grantaire has to admit to himself. This isn’t just infatuation. This is love. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac/Grantaire is going to be a mildly reoccurring thing here, but not as anything serious. That's not how Courfeyrac rolls.

Grantaire is subjected to Courfeyrac’s advances fairly early in their friendship. They’re at the bar, as they usually are. There’s a couple of weeks still until dead days and finals start up, so there’s a minor lull in the workload, enough that even Enjolras has been convinced to leave his ever present book bag at home for a change. Grantaire is on the second half of his second bottle of wine, and Courfeyrac falls down onto the couch next to him with an easy grin and some kind of fruity monstrosity that really ought to be illegal if you aren’t in the Bahamas.

They chat a bit, the basic catch-ups, and Courfeyrac regales him with some little adventure he had on the drunk bus the previous weekend, which is actually pretty humorous. Grantaire is still chuckling when Courfeyrac asks, “Want to make out for a while?”

Grantaire startles a little bit and blinks over at him. He knows that Courfeyrac is a bit of a hound. He’s been warned by more than one of the group that it’s only a matter of time before the other boy makes a pass at him. Grantaire just hadn’t thought he’d be so freaking casual about it.

Not that Grantaire has any sort of problem with casual. In fact, that’s his preferred way to go. He’s learning the hard way that feelings just fuck everything up.

Speaking of, he glances out towards the dance floor. Enjolras is out there with some girl from his political theories class. They’re dancing, but it can hardly be called that. They’re pretty much just swaying back and forth, their hands gesturing wildly, which means they’re still deeply engrossed in their discussion from earlier. As far as Grantaire had overheard, they’re in agreement about most topics, so Enjolras’s face is alight with his usual passion about the subject, but there’s none of that dark, disgusted look that he usually fixes on Grantaire when they argue.

“Sure, why not,” Grantaire answers, unable to look out there anymore, and he’s very suddenly got a lap full of Courfeyrac. Their drinks are gone, and Grantaire takes a few minutes to realize it, and wow, kid is good. The kisses are slow, a tease of lips and tongues sliding against each other. Hands slip into each other’s curls and under shirts.

They end up stretched across the couch, lying on their sides with Courfeyrac’s leg slipped up between Grantaire’s thighs. He rocks lazily against the other as Courfeyrac trails kisses across his jaw and down his neck.

Grantaire’s eyes flutter open in time to see Enjolras spare a glance towards them. His expression is its usual, stoic and unreadable. He looks at them like they are inconsequential, like he hardly even sees them. And then he’s continuing on his discussion with the girl from his class like nothing is out of the ordinary. For him, there isn’t.

Fisting his hands in Courfeyrac’s shirt to keep them from shaking, he grinds down harder on the other’s leg and then shifts so that the friction is more pleasant for the both of them. Courfeyrac laughs and says, “I can work with that too, but we’d probably better get to some place where no one will protests that dicks aren’t in pants.”

“Lead the way,” Grantaire says, voice low and husky. Courfeyrac laughs again and jumps off the couch, pulling Grantaire up and out by the hand. They really aren’t too far from the dorms, but Courfeyrac manages to grab a cab anyway, pushing Grantaire into the back seat and all but pouncing on him. They continue to make out in the back for the ride, and when they get out, Courfeyrac pays the cabbie and flashes a sweet smile. The cabbie just shakes his head with an air of “oh, you kids.”

They’re shedding clothes as soon as the door to the room is opened, and they fall back onto the bed in a mess of limbs. Courfeyrac takes charge, trailing biting kisses down Grantaire’s chest and stomach. He’s gentle but dedicated, slowly working to find spots that make Grantaire gasp. He takes his time opening Grantaire up, waiting until he’s a squirming mess before pushing in.

Grantaire comes first, Courfeyrac some moments later. He half collapses over him, propped up on shaking forearms, his hot breath spilling over Grantaire’s neck. He drags himself up enough to press a searing kiss to Grantaire’s lips and pulls out. Grantaire lets out a completely debauched moan, and Courfeyrac laughs. He rolls over to fish out some wet wipes from his drawer and cleans them both. Then he pulls Grantaire into his arms, buries his face in the back of his neck and yawns around a sleepily muttered, “Night, man.”

The next morning, Grantaire is a little put off when he tries to get up and out, but Courfeyrac just clings to him like a sleepy koala and mutters at him to go the fuck back to sleep because it’s too early for this shit. Considering he’s not going anywhere when he’s got a hundred and fifty something pounds of cuddle monster wrapped around him, plus his head sort of hurts, Grantaire just shrugs and falls back asleep.

When they next wake up, Courfeyrac suggests breakfast, and Grantaire just blinks bleary eyes at him. “What,” Courfeyrac asks. “You were a good lay, but not that good. I’m not saying we should get married, but I mean, good sex, and we’re friends. No reason to do the sneak out before dawn for the walk of shame thing.”

“Point taken,” Grantaire agrees. “So food?”

“You think they deliver pizzas this early? Because the dream here is a second round of mutual orgasms and then pizza is waiting for us when we’re done.”

“Sounds golden.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the last that I have written for their freshman year. Next round of updates will be in sophomore year, and finally some Cosette.

"You are aware that all of us are over the age of seven, right," Enjolras asks dryly as Courfeyrac grins from behind a brochure to a place called Adventure Zone.  
  
"Yeah," Courfeyrac says unfazed. "Look, it's got go karts and laser tag and a ball pit and arcade games and all the pizza you can eat."  
  
"I don't eat pizza," Enjolras deadpans.  
  
"Oh, lighten up, man," Combeferre says. "We’re in, Courf." Courfeyrac beams at him.

“I don’t know,” Grantaire says around a beer, his lips stretched in a shit eating grin. “I mean, would Enjolras even be allowed to get in? That place looks like it reeks of fun.” Enjolras glares at him and then sighs as he is completely outvoted.

It takes two cars to get them all there with people sitting on laps, and as soon as his ticket is in hand, Courfeyrac is off like a rocket. He’s bouncing back and forth between games and the token stations and already has a fistful of coupons before they manage to catch up to him. Joly is crowded into Bousset’s side, staring at every surface like it’s out to kill him. He nearly has a heart attack when Courfeyrac jumps headfirst into the ball pit an hour later.

They break for food after laser tag, Feuilly frowning and massaging a light bruise in the center of his forehead from where he’d run smack into a wall. “It was dark, you assholes,” he snaps when they laugh. They split up to each get their own food preferences, and Enjolras trails around looking as close to dejected as he gets—which is more of an aloof superiority with a hint of mild despair—until Combeferre takes pity and pulls some vegan snack bars from out of his ever-present satchel. Enjolras snatches them with an expression on his face that on anyone else would have promised imminent, sloppy make-outs.

The entire Adventure Zone complex is massive, and the food court reflects that. Everyone is split up and a little lost. Enjolras, Combeferre, and Jehan finally bump into Grantaire, Joly, and Bousset at the smoothie cart, but they’re still missing the others. Combeferre pulls out his phone and calls them. _“I have no freaking clue, man,”_ Feuilly grumbles. _“Oh, hang on, Courfeyrac’s calling.”_ He switches them to a group call.

 _“Bahorel and I are at the pizza,”_ Courfeyrac says. _“I told you about the pizza.”_

“We’re at the smoothies,” Combeferre says.

 _“Where the hell are the smoothies,”_ Feuilly asks.

“By the nachos.”

 _“Oh, shit, there’s nachos,”_ Marius, barely audible, asks, followed by Éponine’s equally muffled, _“Fuck yeah, let’s go!”_  

 _“Okay, but we can’t go anywhere until I get my funnel cake,”_ Bahorel insists, and he must grab a passing employee, because they hear him ask, _“Funnel cakes. Where?”_

 _“Right over there,”_ the employee answers. _“You just go down that way and take a right at the vodka.”_

The others all fall silent, and Bahorel finally says, “ _Oh my God, best directions ever.”_

Grantaire snatches the phone from Combeferre and cries, “Where are you? I want to be there.”

He runs off a second later, and Enjolras just looks around and comments, “This is a family establishment. Why is there hard liquor?”

Jehan shrugs. “College town and people like us,” he says.

After they’ve all been reunited and have eaten and Grantaire is enjoying his third drink, they make their way to the outside entertainment. There’s a go karts track that sports go karts far too small for almost fully grown men, except for Jehan, who is exceedingly short. From the car next to him, Bahorel is leaning awkwardly to get a shot from one of his ever-present cameras—his number of Facebook albums is something close to offensive—that can display the significant difference in the amount of leg that can be seen over the edge of the kart.

Two cars behind him, Grantaire yells up, “Have I told you yet today that you look like a fucking tourist?”

“This makes seven,” Bahorel answers.

The light turns green a moment later, and they all take off. Grantaire is driving fairly leisurely. He’d manage to sneak his drink into the kart, and he’s much more preoccupied with that until one hit to his kart makes him swallow down the wrong pipe and a second immediately following makes him spill the entire thing. He looks up to see Éponine and Enjolras speed by, both smirking back at him over their shoulders.

“Oh, you fucking did not,” he roars, chasing after them. 

Éponine later makes up for the spilling of the drink by bringing him a giant beer while half the group rides on the spinning teacups. They can hear Joly wailing every time the cup he’s on passes by. He’d tried to claim he had an inner ear infection, but Bousset had just dragged him into the cup and yelled for the operator to hurry and start the thing. Courfeyrac has his hands in the air and is loudly whooping.

The final ride of the night is the bumper boats, and none of them—except for Enjolras—are at all put out by the looks the parents of the kids in line are giving them. When they get in the boats, they do try to avoid the kids, although Courfeyrac bump a few, cackling as he does so. Éponine, having brought him a beer, has been forgiven for her transgression, but Enjolras has not, so Grantaire hunts him down and all but leaps into his boat.

“What the hell,” Enjolras cries, scrambling to grab a firmer hold of the boat as it rocks wildly.

“Pirate attack,” Grantaire yells, and it spurs the others to make the same attempts against each other.

Apparently, this is frowned upon by the establishment, and they’re called up and out of the water and asked to leave. Courfeyrac brandishes pocketful of coupon and says, “Not until I get my giant slinky.”

It’s not until two days later that Bahorel sends out a mass email with two attachments, both pictures. The first is completely normal and from a moment on the bumper boats. It’s Feuilly drifting away from the camera, his arm outstretched, and they all remember he had been yelling, “I’ll never let go, Jack!”

The next actually causes Éponine, Joly, and Jehan, all in separate classes as they check their emails, to scream out loud; Grantaire falls out of his chair he’s laughing so hard and is yelled at by his professor. It’s from the picture from before, but Bahorel has zoomed into the background to highlight the presence of a little girl who has the most intense expression on her face. But that’s still not the worst part of it. The worst is that it looks like she has no irises or pupils. It’s just white in there.

_“It’s a fucking demon child!”_

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for Cosette! This chapter happens in the beginning of their sophomore year, let's say mid to late September.

Not that it’s anything out of the ordinary, but Grantaire has already been drinking for a few hours when Éponine finds him. He hasn’t been having the best week, and it’s one of those rare instances where even the bottle isn’t offering him the numbness he needs. He can’t stand the thought of the bar right now, over crowded with so many people. He can’t stand how he knows he’d have to act there, the center of everyone’s attention except for the one person he wants.

 

Éponine lets herself into his crappy apartment, kicking a discarded pizza box out of the way. She doesn’t look disappointed when she sees him slumped on the ground in front of his couch. He’s always appreciated that about her. Of everyone else he knows, Éponine would be the one to understand that there are just things that need to be dulled and numbed. She doesn’t judge his need to keep a bottle in his grasp.

 

“Got enough left to share,” she asks, and there’s something thick in her voice. Grantaire pats the rough carpet beside him, and she shuffles over, sitting sprawled next to him, their legs stretched out before them. She takes the bottle he offers and pulls a long gulp. She comes away with a gasping grunt. Grantaire offers her a dry and lazy grin. “Shit,” she says. “You having a bad day or are you just waiting for your next paycheck to come through?”

 

“Little bit of this, little bit of that,” Grantaire answers, taking the bottle back. His hands feel strange without its weight there. “So, you want to tell me why you’re here drinking my swill, or are we going to ignore it and just get pissed beyond belief?”

 

“Pissed,” she says immediately.

 

That’s how Grantaire learns about Cosette, a girl Marius met in his Classical Lit class. Apparently there was a thunderbolt, and Marius is forever infatuated. He feels bad for Éponine. She’s been harboring a massive crush on Marius for the several years, since they were in high school together. Éponine’s home life kind of totally sucks. Her parents are jackasses, and Marius had been someone who had helped her feel some measure of self-worth. But she’s never been able to muster up the nerve to tell him how much he means to her. She’s just managed to convince herself that she can live with just friendship.

 

Grantaire gets it. He really gets it. So he lets her drink his vodka and lets her mutter complaints. He doesn’t begrudge her using him to rant at. She needs to get it out. Better she say something to him than to any of the others, who would be made uncomfortable and might let slip something to Marius. Grantaire is a drunk, but he is still very good at keeping secrets.

 

It’s a while before they actually meet Cosette. Marius talks about her all the time. She’s just about all he can talk about, the color of her hair, the way her eyes twinkle, the upturn of her lips when she smiles. Combeferre throws a beer can at him when Marius actually starts on about her eyelashes one night.

 

Marius finally brings her around to the bar a couple of weeks after they start dating. Most of the group crowds around her, eager to meet the infamous little lady. She’s a very pretty thing, small and blond, with bright eyes and a brighter smile. She laughs deeply with the rest of them when Courfeyrac comments, “Now that you’re around, maybe Marius can actually join in the conversations, instead of keeping his nose pressed to his phone waiting for your next text." Jehan launches into an over the top, even by his standards, poem of longing, ducking away when Marius takes a good natured swat at him.

 

It’s obvious within moments that she’s going to fit in and get along well with everyone. She’s got that same sweet innocent air about her as Courfeyrac. She’s got a good sense of humor, which is all Combeferre, Bossuet, and Joly can ask for. And Enjolras actually beams—freaking beams—at her when she tries some vegan mush he’s eating and compliments it. Everyone else always just makes fun of his eating habits. And then she further enthralls him by inquiring as to his studies and keeping up the conversation with him. “Keep her, Marius,” Enjolras says, patting Marius on his shoulder. Marius grins. Something like that, coming from Enjolras, who doesn’t ever seem to have time or patience for anything outside of his life plan, it’s high praise.

 

Éponine drops onto the loveseat by Grantaire, her expression sour and just short of miserable. He wordlessly passes his glass to her, and she takes a generous gulp. “This sucks,” she says, and he can hear it in her voice how hard she’s fighting to not cry. Éponine does not cry often, so when she does, you know she’s at a breaking point. “This sucks,” she repeats.

 

Grantaire nods. He knows. God, does he know. He knows the ache, the stabbing pain that nothing, no amount of drink, drugs, or sex, has ever been able to numb. He knows the loneliness and the longing of constantly being in the presence of something he can never have, something he is unworthy to touch. Something that doesn’t even want to touch him.

 

They get drunk there on the couch, passing the glass and then the bottle back and forth. They lean their heads together, whispering and muttering mean things to each other. “I mean look at her,” Éponine says, more slurs. “Who puts all that time into curling their freaking hair? Shit’s just going to fall in the humidity.”

 

“Fucking tofu,” Grantaire mutters.

 

“And it’s a Saturday night,” she continues. “Who the hell, besides Mr. Twsited Panties over there, talks about political upheaval and—and whatever the hell on a Saturday night?”

 

Grantaire snorts, knocking his head against hers. “Dorks,” he says, and she giggles. They spend the next few minutes rather loudly doing their best Enjolras impressions, snooting up their accents and turning up their noses. He hears them and sends sharp glares in their direction. It just makes them laugh louder. Grantaire nearly falls right off the couch and is only saved by Éponine’s fast if clumsy hands.

 

“You know what the worst part of it all is,” Éponine says quietly after they’ve regained their breath. Grantaire hums. “She’s actually really, really nice, like genuinely."

 

“That bitch,” Grantaire deadpans.

 

Éponine doesn’t laugh that time. She just smiles sadly. “She makes him happy.”

 

“And that’s all you want for him, even if it isn’t with you,” Grantaire says, his eyes locked onto Enjolras, who doesn’t even see him.

 

Éponine wraps her arms around one of his. “It would have been so much easier if it was the two of us, don’t you think?” Grantaire almost smiles, leaning his head down to rest against hers. “Let them have their loves, and we could do what we wanted.”

 

“Grantaire and Éponine,” he muses. “Doesn’t sound too bad.” And he ducks his head to kiss her. She makes a small noise of surprise, but she kisses back, her hands going up into his wild mess of hair. His tongue slides into her mouth, moving over hers. She’s warm against him and fits nicely in his arms. She arches into him, and he groans, pushing her back over the loveseat. He pulls away from her only far enough to break the kiss. They stare at each other, and Éponine asks, “Anything?”

 

It’s a good kiss, pretty close to a great kiss, but he can’t help up avert his eyes back over to Enjolras. Enjolras is watching them with a mildly curious expression. It’s a knife to Grantaire’s heart. He wishes so desperately that it was a burning jealousy clouding that handsome face. But no, and he turns his gaze back to the conversation he’s been having with Marius and Cosette.

 

Grantaire drops his head into the crook of Éponine’s neck. “No,” he chokes out. He’s almost shaking above her, and her hands rub soothingly over his back. She whispers in his ear comforting words.

 

Grantaire sits back up, taking Éponine with him. He readjusts her so that she’s nearly in his lap, and he returns his head to her neck, his rough cheek pressed up against her collar bone. She touches her lips to his forehead. “I don’t know how long it’ll take, but we’ll eventually get over them,” she says.

 

He snorts. “Can’t live without the sun,” he says.

 

“Stop your pessimism,” she snaps. “We’ll get over it. We have to.”

 

And Grantaire laughs. Because that is how Éponine comforts. She isn’t soft. She doesn’t offer pretty words. She just insists that something will be so, and woe to any who challenge her. He’s seen her deck Combeferre when he wouldn’t take comfort from her after he botched up a midterm.

 

“You are the actual best, Ep,” he crows, and he peppers her face with kisses. She squeals in laughter, trying to squirm away, but he holds her tightly in place.

 

“Oh, gross! You’re slobbering on me! Stop it!” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely impressed with this chapter. The characterization feels off, even though I can understand why someone in Eponine's position might behave this way. And really, it's not the worst. idk. I might go back later and redo this, but for the sake of getting the story going, here it is.

It would have been a normal night in the back room of the Musain, but then Jehan had blinked big eyes at them, and suddenly there is a _Monopoly_ board all set up. Enjolras bodily hauls Grantaire away from the head of the table where the money is set up. “No,” he says firmly. “Not after last time.”

Bahorel and Feuilly arrive with armloads of takeout, and they all settle in. Éponine frowns to find herself seated directly across from Marius and Cosette. The two are something close to sickening in the midst of the newness of their relationship. She tries to put it out of her mind. She had told Grantaire not even two weeks ago that this was something to get over. She had missed her opportunity, and it was neither Marius’s nor Cosette’s fault. She’d had plenty of chances to make her own affections know, and she’d never taken them. This is her problem, and she needs to deal with it, not take it out on anyone else.

The two rub their noses together as they sort through their money, and Éponine abandons her beer for something a little stronger.

The game gets underway, and people are starting to bulk up on properties and even some hotels when they begin to notice some fishy trading going on. “Is that legal,” Bahorel asks as Joly and Bossuet trade properties.

“I feel like this might be shady,” Courfeyrac agrees.

“It’s not shady,” Joly protests, tucking his new yellow property and bills into place.

“I don’t know,” Combeferre says. “You two have that look on your face, like when we play Apples to Apples and you do that freaky ESPN thing.”

“I still think we should bump it up and start on Cards Against Humanity,” Grantaire says.

“We are not playing that game,” Enjolras protests. “It’s bad enough what you do to Apples to Apples.”

“You could try to develop a sense of humor,” Grantaire suggests. “Or, failing that, buy one.”

Courfeyrac narrows his eyes. “I don’t trust them,” he says of Joly and Bossuet. “Look at them. They’re both wearing green shirts.”

“Conspiracy,” Feuilly cries. “Enjolras, police them.”

“I’m the banker, not the police,” Enjolras says, scooting the money further from Grantaire’s reach.

“We aren’t cheating,” Bossuet says. “Trading properties is legal.”

“I don’t trust your alliance,” Courfeyrac repeats. “Your Alliance of the Green Shirts.”

“That’s an alliance that calls for more than just sharing shirts, if you get me,” Bahorel chortles, and Joly turns a bit red as the others hoot, but still smiles at Bossuet when he kisses his cheek.

From the other end of the table, Éponine pipes up. “They aren’t the only alliance going on around here.” Her words are slurred, and she grins brazenly at Marius and Cosette. “Am I right?”

It’s really not that invasive a comment, as far as their group goes, but Marius turns so red he’s almost purple, and Cosette just looks uncomfortable. Under the table, Grantaire kicks at Éponine’s leg. “Ow,” she yelps. “What, it was just a question. I mean, we’re all friends here, huh?”

“Not your business,” he hisses at her.

“I’m just curious if they’ve fucked yet,” she says too loudly.

“Ponine,” Marius cries.

“So, yeah,” Courfeyrac says, “this cheese dip is really good.” Combeferre shoots him an exasperated look that says _clearly not your best effort_. Courfeyrac just shrugs.

“Why don’t we keep playing,” Enjolras says, his tone gentle but leaving no room for question. “Jehan, it’s your turn.”

They go back to the game, teasing Joly and Bossuet again. Marius keeps shooting Éponine slightly hurt looks, and she just puts back another shot. Grantaire is arguing with Enjolras about the federal banking system, but he keeps a leg pressed up against Éponine’s, ready to nudge her in silent warning every time she makes a huff of noise at something Marius or Cosette is doing.

Everything is fine until Éponine’s roll lands her right on Park Place, where Cosette has set up a hotel. Cosette, excited, practically jumps out of her chair with a loud cheer, but she’s cut off by Éponine screaming, “Oh, bullshit,” and flipping the board.

They all fall silent, hotels scattering across the room and paper money floating down around their heads. Éponine’s eyes are blazing, Cosette looks like she’s been punched in the gut, and Marius is turning red again.

Before anyone can do anything, Grantaire is up, pulling Éponine to her feet. “Woe is the day I have to be the responsible one and take the drunk home,” he says with a bark of laughter that they all see right through.

“Wait,” Marius starts. “What in the world was—“

“Drinking a little too much tonight, huh, Ep,” Grantaire says over him. “And we all know _Monopoly_ is almost as bad as _Mario Kart_ when it comes to tempers.”

“That wasn’t just—“

“Courf, you wanna help me with her,” Grantaire says pointedly.

Courfeyrac immediately jumps up and hurries to Éponine’s other side. “I do not need to go home,” she snaps.

“You do though, honey,” Courfeyrac says gently. “Say good-bye.”

As they lead her out, Éponine calls over her shoulder, “Thank you for your hospitality, les amis, your food and drink were wonderful, and I’m sorry I’m a bitch.” Feuilly lets out an awkward squeal of a giggle as the door is closing behind them.

They get Éponine into the back seat of Courfeyrac’s car, rolling down the window for her just in case. No one says anything on the drive back to Éponine’s place or as they’re bringing her upstairs. Courfeyrac goes to put on some coffee, and Grantaire helps Éponine into her pajamas. It’s only once Courfeyrac has put the cup in her hands and sat by her on the bed that Grantaire asks, “What the hell was that?”

Éponine takes one look up at him and bursts into tears. “Oh, nice, R,” Courfeyrac says, wrapping his arms around her.

“Shit, I didn’t want her to cry,” Grantaire exclaims.

“I don’t—I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Éponine sobs.

“The boy you’re in love with is dating someone else, and you haven’t moved on from it yet,” Courfeyrac says gently. “Also, you got a little bit drunk.”

“Oh my God,” she groans into his shoulder. “He’s going to hate me.”

Grantaire hunches down to kneel closer to her level, propping his arms on her knees to keep his balance. “Marius couldn’t hate you, Ep,” he says. “You’re going to have to apologize, both to him and Cosette, but he’s not going to hate you.”

“Maybe you should take a little break,” Courfeyrac suggests. “Not a big one, but maybe take a couple of weeks and get some space from them. And if anyone asks, R and I will cover for you, make up projects or the flu or whatever you need.”

“Let’s not make up illnesses,” Grantaire amends. “Joly might have a conniption.”

“We should tell him she’s got cholera,” Courfeyrac says with a grin. “He might actually faint.”

“You two are terrible people,” Éponine mutters, snaking hands out to dig into their almost matching curls.

“Yet you still love us,” Courfeyrac says. “Now, come on, under the covers.”

Éponine buries herself under the blankets and pulls the other two down with her. They curl in a protective cocoon around her, and Grantaire only grumbles once about her blowing her nose on his sleeve before they fall asleep.  


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little better, but still kind of meh for me. idk, things that go better in my head.

_“Please, Courf,_ ” Éponine begs. _“Everyone else is busy.”_

“It kind of hurts my feelings that you called even Grantaire before me,” he says.

_“Well, he’s the only other person around here that Gavroche has met and liked, but he’s stuck in a studio all night.”_

“I don’t know anything about kids,” Courfeyrac says. “Why in God’s name would you want me to babysit one?”

 _“He’s ten,”_ Éponine says. _“He can mostly watch himself. I’d just feel better if there was an adult in the house. Or something that at least imitates it.”_

“You’re funny,” he answers dryly. “I could hang up on you.”

 _“But you won’t,”_ Éponine says in a sing-song.

“Dammit. Fine. But if we die in a fire, just know that I protested this.”

Courfeyrac arrives at Éponine’s apartment around an hour later, and she all but flies past him. “Thank you so much, Courf. You’re a life saver. There’s emergency numbers on the fridge and frozen pizzas for dinner. Okay, I’m so late; I have to go. GAVROCHE, BEHAVE!”

The door slams shut behind her, and Courfeyrac sighs. He turns to go further into the apartment, maybe find the kid and introduce himself, but Éponine’s little brother is standing right there, like _right there_ , and Courfeyrac jumps and almost falls back on his ass.

Gavroche just arches a brow. He doesn’t look much like Éponine, with his dirty blond hair and bright blue eyes, and seeing them just out on the street, Courfeyrac never would have guessed they were siblings. Courfeyrac knows only a little bit about Éponine’s home life. He knows that she counts the day she moved out of her parents’ home as the best of her life. He knows that she has a few younger siblings, and that she tries to be there for them as best as she can from such a distance. He knows that occasionally, home gets to be too much for one of them, and they’ll come up to stay with her for a bit.

“So,” Courfeyrac says, rubbing his hands over the coarse fabric of his shorts. “I’m Courfeyrac.”

“Yeah, I know,” he answers.

“Yeah, okay, so, anything you want to do?”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Gavroche says plainly.

“Cool,” Courfeyrac returns. “But I’m already here, so, yeah. I’m just gonna grab a coke and watch TV. You can do your thing.”

And he does for a good few hours. Courfeyrac just lounges on Éponine’s couch, and he doesn’t see Gavroche until around the time his own stomach is starting to growl. The kid just breezes by him and starts pressing buttons on the oven. “Hey,” Courfeyrac yelps, scrambling up and hurrying over. “Should you be messing with that?”

The look Gavorche sends him is scathing. Courfeyrac holds up his hands and stands back to let the kid unwrap the pizzas and pop them into the oven. He sets the timer and takes them twenty minutes later and slices them up. Considering his stomach has been growling for the past far too many minutes, Courfeyrac grabs at a slice and takes a large bite, immediately spitting it out as it burns his tongue.

Gavroche laughs uproariously. “Are you sure Ponine didn’t send you here for me to watch you,” he asks.

“Oh, now you have a sense of humor,” Courfeyrac says, although, tongue hanging out, the words are a little distorted. “Rude.”

Gavroche just shrugs and blows on his pizza to cool it, the little shit. Courfeyrac puts the pizza back down, not sure he trusts it, or at least not until he gets something cool on his tongue. He digs through the refrigerator and starts pulling things out until he’s got everything necessary for chocolate malts. “Want one,” he asks, hold out a glass to Gavroche.

“You put powder in it,” he says warily.

“Malted milk,” Courfeyrac explains. “Try it. This is how they used to make them back in the 50s at soda fountains.”

“You say soda fountain, but I feel like you don’t mean the thing you get coke out of at McDonalds,” Gavroche says, accepting the glass.

“Not even close,” Courfeyrac says. “Try it.”

The boy takes a sip, and his face lights up. “That’s really good,” he says, gulping down some more.

“Don’t drink it too fast. Brain freeze is the worst,” Courfeyrac warns, pouring his own cup full. They finish eating, and when Gavroche doesn’t immediately disappear back into the depths of the apartment, Courfeyrac asks, “So, what do you want to do with the rest of the night?”

“Video games,” Gavroche shrugs. “I’d say go out and do something, but Ponine would get mad.”

“What like to the park or something,” Courfeyrac says. “Are there kid parks around here? Oh my God, I need to look into that.”

Gavroche offers him a weird look and says slowly, “Yeah, you do that.”

“Hey, playgrounds are awesome,” Courfeyrac says.

“Aren’t you a little old for that,” Gavroche asks.

“The day I’m too old for playgrounds and swings and monkey bars is the day I expect someone to put me down,” Courfeyrac answers.

Gavroche shakes his head as he goes over to the television. “Man, it would be so easy to ditch you somewhere.”

“Rude,” Courfeyrac mutters. “Okay, so what game?”

“Um,” Gavroche says, trailing his fingers over Éponine’s collection. “How about this?”

“No, absolutely not,” Courfeyrac says. “ _Mario Kart_ brings out the darkest parts of human nature, and I am not going to turn into a person who screams profanity at a kid.”

“I’ll bet I know more curse words than you,” Gavroche challenges.

Courfeyrac almost argues, but then he remembers that this is Éponine’s little brother, and Éponine could make a sailor blush. “Be that as it may,” he says instead, “something else.”

They end up playing _Sonic the Hedgehog_ , but they can’t make it past the second world. “God damned battery acid,” Courfeyrac wails, dropping the controller and flopping back to sprawl pitifully on the floor.

“So now what,” Gavroche asks, glaring at the screen as it mocks their failures.

“I don’t know,” Courfeyrac answers.

“You’re the so-called adult,” Gavroche says. “It’s your job to think of something.”

“You’re the kid with the never ending imagination,” Courfeyrac retorts. “Coming up with something to do should be easier than breathing to you.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Gavroche says.

“It’s the weekend,” Courfeyrac says. “I don’t have to be at the top of my game.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“Oh, shut up.”

They sit in silence for a few moments before Courfeyrac comments, “This is usually about the time that Grantaire would be suggesting a dance party.” He sits up suddenly. “Dance party is an awesome idea.” And he’s scrambling over to where he’d dumped his keys, sunglasses, and iPod when he’d arrived.

“Dance party, really,” Gavroche asks.

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac says, wild eyes glued on the screen as he thumbs through playlist. “80s dance party. No! Michael Jackson dance party!” He giggles as he plugs the iPod into the speakers.

“Michael Jackson, really?”

“Hush,” Courfeyrac says. “You’re just a kid. You don’t know any better. But I am taking you under my wing, and you will learn.”

“That sounds creepy,” Gavroche says. “Extra creepy considering wasn’t that dude a pedo or something.”

“You need to stop trying to make me sad and just—okay— _Billie Jean_.” And he starts dancing.

“Is that choreographed,” Gavroche asks.

Courfeyrac deflates visibly. “Okay, you know what, how do you know that Michael Jackson was a pedo—and you know what, he died like before you were born or something, so how do you even know that much—but you don’t know that he was the like the most awesome dancer ever? I don’t even know what to do with your generation.”

It’s nearly two in the morning before Éponine gets back to her apartment. She’s exhausted, and all she wants in this world is to fall face first into her bed and not move for about sixteen hours. But as she approaches her door, she can hear music blaring, and once inside, she hears that it’s _Thriller._

She’s ready to start yelling. Sure, Courfeyrac has said he didn’t know much about taking care of kids, but even he has to know that a ten year old shouldn’t be kept up this late. The words die in her throat. On the couch, Courfeyrac is sprawled out, one leg kicked up over the arm rest, and his mouth wide open as he snores lightly. Gavroche is curled up against him, using his shoulder as a pillow, and Éponine’s heart just about melts.

She slips her phone from her pocket and snaps a picture—that she sends to Grantaire with the comment of “You’ve got competition”—before unplugging the iPod. The sudden lack of noise wakes Courfeyrac, who blinks blearily at her and then down at Gavroche. “Here, I’ll get him to bed,” she whispers, reaching for her brother.

“He’s fine,” Courfeyrac answers, yawning. “Maybe a blanket though.” He’s back asleep immediately, and Éponine smiles as she grabs a quilt and covers them both up before heading back to her room. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I probably rush things, but I don't care. I just want everyone happy

“You don’t like me,” Cosette says very suddenly. Éponine freezes for a brief moment, her mind racing with an internalize panic. She could take this moment and clearly agree with Cosette, plainly tell her that no, no, she does not like the other girl, and then that would be the end of it. Cosette would stop trying to stand and talk with her so much, as they are the only two girls who are a regular part of this group. Cosette would stop trying, and Éponine would have one less care in the world.

But saying something so mean and deliberate to Cosette would hurt Marius, and for all that he’s hurt her, Éponine can’t do that to him.

So instead she pastes on a bewildered smile and says, “What do you mean?”

But Cosette is looking at her with none of that naïve innocence that her face usually seems set in. She’s serious as Éponine has ever seen her in the months they’ve been acquainted, eyes sharp and almost cutting. “You pretend, and you’re polite enough, but you don’t actually like me,” Cosette says. “I just want to know why. If I’ve done something that offends you, well, I’d like the chance to make up for that.”

Éponine wishes she could just throttle this girl. How dare she? How dare she woo Marius away and then offer her hand in peace like this? She wants to rip out her perfectly curled golden hair.

“It’s nothing,” Éponine insists, a bit more harshly than she’d intended, but really, it’s so hard keeping her cool around this girl.

“That’s just not true,” Cosette says, refusing to back down. It surprises Éponine. Cosette just seems like someone who would wilt, someone who stands down at confrontation. She’s apparently been mistaken. “This isn’t fair. I’ve tried to be friendly and nice to all of you. You’re all Marius’s friends. You mean the world to him, and I don’t want to be something that comes between that. I want to be included with all of you. I just—I just want to know why you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Éponine says bitterly, and she’s surprised by the truth of it. She wants to, but she doesn’t actually hate Cosette.

“Then what is it,” Cosette cries in exasperation. “What’s the problem? I keep wracking my brain, but I’m not coming up with anything that I’ve done.”

“Everything just works out for you,” Éponine snaps. “You with your pretty face and blond curls. You just walk into a room and everyone loves you. Everyone fawns over you. Oh, pretty Cosette. Oh, sweet Cosette. Oh, little angel Cosette. You just—you just show up one day, out of the blue, and you take everything that I have ever wanted, and now he barely even looks at me anymore.”

Éponine’s hands fly to cover her mouth. She hadn’t meant to say that. She hadn’t meant to say any of that.

Cosette stares at her with wide eyes, her cheeks pale. “Marius,” she breathes. “You’re in love with Marius.”

Éponine stumbles back a step. “Oh, shit,” she mutters, wiping her hands over her face. She can’t breathe. No one was supposed to know. If they did know, they’d all had the decency to keep it to themselves. She’d only ever spoken of it all to Grantaire, because she knew that he was the only one who would understand. But Cosette certainly was never supposed to know. And now Marius too will know this secret, and what will he think?

“Oh, Éponine, I didn’t know,” Cosette says, and she’s suddenly wrapped her arms around the other girl in a firm hug. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry,” Éponine gasps out. “You’re sorry?”

“You knew him before I did,” Cosette says. “Long before I came along. And you loved him, and then here I came and –oh, it’s no wonder you don’t like me!”

Éponine can’t help the laugh that escapes her lips. How can this girl even be real? “It’s not your fault,” she says, and Cosette pulls away but still keeps her hands on Éponine’s shoulders. “It’s really not. I just—he chose you. He’s not an object that I can lock away. I can’t tell him what to do and how to feel and who to feel it for. We all get dealt our lots in life. This is just what I’m stuck with.”

Cosette’s hands rub up and down her arms once. “Things get better,” she says softly. “I—I used to be in the foster system. My father left my mother and me when I was a baby, and we never had much. Then she got sick, and I ended up in the system. It was—I have nightmare about it sometimes. You feel so worthless there, and even when they do give you to a family, you always get sent back, and it’s like no one will ever want you and—“ She cuts off for a moment and then draws in a deep breath.

“Then I met my dad, my adoptive father,” she says, and the smile that stretches her lips speaks of a dear love that Éponine hasn’t been able to summon for her own father in years. “He had actually known my mother for a time, and he took me in, and he kept me. There isn’t a morning I wake up that I don’t thank God for Papa and for having the strength to keep my head above the water until he found me.”

She steps back, presses her hands to her mouth and then wipes under her eyes. “I—I haven’t ever really talked to anyone about that before,” she admits.

Éponine blinks. “Not even Marius?”

Cosette shakes her head. “And I know. I know it’s not the same sort of situation, but I just mean to say that, keep your head up, keep some faith and hope, and eventually you find something better, something that you were meant for.”

Éponine wipes furiously at her own eyes. “Easier said than done,” she says.

“I know,” Cosette answers. “I won’t tell him,” she adds. “Marius. I won’t say anything about it. And if you want me to forget you said it, I will.”

“You’re not actually going to forget, so don’t bother with it,” Éponine says.

Cosette nods. They stand in an awkward sort of silence for a few moments before Cosette squares her shoulders and says, “I still want to. Be friends, that is. I mean, I get it, and I totally understand if you’d rather I never even be in the same room as you again, but I’d still like to be friends. I mean, it’s such a boys’ club around here.”

Éponine snorts. “You should have seen it before you came,” she offers. “They think of me as one of the guys. They’ve gotten much politer since Marius started bringing you.”

Cosette laughs. “This is polite?”

In spite of herself, Éponine grins. “Oh, Cosette, the stories I could tell you.”

Returning the smile, Cosette settles in on the couch. She pats the seat next to her and says, “We’ve got all night.” 


	9. Chapter 9

They're out on a bar hike, which Enjolras likes to remind them later that he was firmly in opposition to, when it happens. The weather has been all over the place that week, cold and snowing and cold and raining. The streets and sidewalks are a mess of puddles, slushy snow, and hidden ice.  
  
They all walk with careful steps, but, in a twist of ill fate, it's the sober one amongst them that takes the plunge. Enjolras's boot hits a patch of ice and goes skidding out from under him. His arms flail wildly as he attempts to gain his balance. It only serves to makes him twist and fall in a different direction entirely.  
  
He hits the ground hard, and the others all stare with wide eyes, Cosette with her mittened hands pressed against her mouth. For the briefest half second, they think they might start laughing, because, let's face it, it's pretty funny when someone falls down, even your friend, but then they see that Enjolras's eyes are clenched shut and his jaw is tight. He's not embarrassed; he's in pain.  
  
"Oh, shit, are you all right," Marius asks, the first to reach him.  
  
"My ankle rolled funny," he answers tightly.  
  
"Let's try to get you up," Grantaire says, and together he and Marius lift Enjolras up by his arms. "Try it out."  
  
Enjolras puts light pressure on his right foot and hisses, "Oh, fuck."  
  
The others all wince. Enjolras is a man of many, many words but rarely do those words include profanity. They try to give him a few minutes, thinking that maybe it's just the immediacy of the injury. His next attempt yields the same results, and so they call Joly, who suggests the emergency room.  
  
Combeferre, the next most sober at only two drinks in, volunteers to go collect his car. He starts to hurry down the sidewalk and almost suffers the same fate as Enjolras. He hits a bad patch and skids for a couple of feet, but he manages to stay upright. "Grass," they hear him mutter to himself before he jumps over and starts running through lawns.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, he pulls up to the curb. The others help Enjolras into the passenger seat and then crowd into the back.  
  
Because they don't arrive by ambulance, they have to wait for a stupid amount of time before Enjolras can be seen by someone. About as good as they get is Cosette batting her eyes at some passing nurse who goes off to get an ice pack. They end up crowded in a corner of the waiting room, Enjolras's leg propped up in Grantaire's lap—“Keep it elevated," the nurse had advised—as he fills out forms.  
  
Grantaire has a hard time not fidgeting—Enjolras's leg is in his lap, okay—so he pulls out his flask and takes a swig. "This is a hospital," Enjolras hisses, not even looking up from the clipboard.  
  
"I'm not smoking," Grantaire argues.  
  
"Also, we were going to bars. You need a flask for a bar hike?"  
  
"There were brief windows of time on said hike where I did not have a lovely bartender to see to my needs. So I saw to my own." He grins and has another pull before offering it out to the other.  
  
Enjolras rolls his eyes and attempts to ignore his friend.  
  
He can barely move his leg without immense pain shooting up it, so by the time he's finally called, a nurse has to bring a wheelchair to get him back to an examination room. They take an X-ray, and while he's waiting, Cosette pops in with a coffee. He takes a sip and almost chokes. "What," she asks worriedly.  
  
He frowns at her. "I would expect this from Éponine, but not you, Cosette," Enjolras says.  
  
"What," she cries. "I didn't do anything."  
  
"There's whiskey in here," Enjolras accuses.  
  
"Oh," Cosette says slowly. "Hm, yeah, well, Grantaire did buy it. Oops,"  
  
"I swear, nothing is sacred to that man. He's using you to try to get me drunk, and while I'm injured at that," he grumbles.  
  
Cosette laughs. "One small spiked coffee won't get even you drunk, Enjolras. He's just trying to help, in his own way."  
  
The doctor returns with his files, and Enjolras, expression dead panned, hands the coffee back to Cosette. She shrugs and starts drinking it. Enjolras shakes his head. Those degenerates are getting to her.  
  
Nothing is actually broken, per say, but there is a minor fracture in his ankle. It's not so bad that it needs to be plastered, but Enjolras is given a brace, crutches, and a prescription for some light pain medication. He's wheeled to the waiting room and his friends. Marius goes to get Combeferre’s car while Enjolras finishes checking out.  
  
With a severe frown, he pushes the crutches up under his arms and attempts to walk out. The damned things catch in the carpet, and Grantaire and Cosette's fast hands are the only things that keep him from falling again.  
  
"Smooth," Grantaire says, not bothering to hide a wide grin.  
  
Cosette smacks his arm lightly. "Leave him alone, poor thing," she defends.  
  
Combeferre and Grantaire snicker, because he almost trips again getting over the threshold of the hospital. He refuses point blank to attempt going into the pharmacy to get his medications, so Marius is sent.  
  
When they reach Enjolras's apartment complex, he glares out the window. The only way to get in is either up a small set of stairs or a wheelchair ramp. Both look treacherous, and considering he's all but snarling just pulling himself out of the car, he has no idea what he's going to do.  
  
Combeferre finally takes pity and comes around to crouch in front of him. "Hop up," he offers. "And don't give me that look. We've already taken you to the hospital once today. Twice would just be sad."  
  
Enjolras sighs and drapes so that Combeferre can lift him up on his back. He has to bounce a bit to hoist him up to a better position, and he grunts as it sends a shock of pain up his leg. "Sorry, buddy," Combeferre says, patting the other leg.  
  
"Aw, Combeferre, you ruined it," Grantaire whines.  
  
"I wanted to see how long it would take until he threw a temper tantrum," Marius complains.  
  
"You're all assholes," Enjolras snaps. Combeferre chortles, and he adds, "Stop laughing, dammit."  
  
"You really are all horrible," Cosette says, leading the way across the street to the apartment.  
  
"It's really not our faults," Combeferre says. "You've met him. Nothing ever makes him lose his cool, nothing except getting hurt. Enjolras is the absolute worst invalid you'll ever meet."  
  
On his back, Enjolras growls.  
  
"Remember that time he stubbed his toe coming out of that physics lab," Grantaire asks, digging into Enjolras's coat pocket for his keys.  
  
Marius throws his head back as he howls. "Don't you dare laugh," Enjolras threatens, knocking a fist against Combeferre’s chest, "or, I swear to God, I will snap your little spine in half with my thighs."  
  
Grantaire almost chokes on his ill-timed sip of whiskey, and Combeferre’s face does an interesting spasm, and then he yelps, "Ouch! Hey, I didn't laugh!"


	10. Chapter 10

Being friends with Cosette does not come naturally. Not even a little bit. Yes, they’ve had their talk, which has led to a bit of an understanding, but that doesn’t take the awkwardness away. Éponine can’t magically get over that Cosette is the reason she’s got no more chance at Marius. As for Cosette, she doesn’t blame Éponine for her feelings—because she gets it, she so gets why someone would be attracted to Marius—and she certainly doesn’t think she needs to keep an eye on them. She knows Marius loves her, and she knows that Éponine isn’t the sort of person who would attempt sabotage. But she understands how it’s all very awkward, and she herself has moments of “what am I even trying to do here?”

But she does try. Because Éponine is a nice person, and the boys all speak so highly of her. She wants the two of them to be friends. And she knows that Éponine is trying too. It’s just not as easy from her point of view.

They never really hang out just the two of them. That’s still too much. But they make attempts at the bar, at separating themselves just a little bit from the boys and chatting. When the group goes out to eat, Cosette tries to make sure to sit by Éponine often. It’s all very slow going.

Or, at least, it is until St. Patrick’s Day. For the most part, the boys—Enjolras obviously being the exception, but who is thankful to have the excuse of his ankle to skip out on the festivities—love the holiday. They show up to the bar completely decked out head to toe in green with ridiculous hats and shamrock beads. Grantaire is a mess by noon, and they’re pretty sure they’re going to have to set him up in the manager’s office for a nap within the hour.

The problem with St. Patrick’s Day is that it seems to bring out the worst in some people, mainly the dude-bros who are overcompensating for something and always looking for a fight. And that’s sort of something that everyone kind of expects to happen, but the real problem is when it happens to Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac lives in a world where everyone is fair game, sexually speaking. He’s attracted to anything and everything, and he doesn’t particularly understand why someone else wouldn’t have the same mindset. He’s never obnoxious about it, and if someone isn’t interested, he moves on with no hard feelings. Most of the regulars at the Musain know that, as they’ve had well over a year to become acquainted with Courfeyrac and his tendencies. But it’s St. Patrick Day, one of the high holidays. There are a lot more people in the bar than there are usually, a lot more people who don’t frequent it.

Courfeyrac makes the mistake of attempting to kiss some beefy jock wearing a too tight polo, who doesn’t take kindly to the advances. He takes a swing at Courfeyrac, landing a punch to his jaw.

From the other side of the bar, Cosette has a clear view of this over Marius’s shoulder. Her stomach drops as Courfeyrac does, and she cries out furiously, “Oh, no he did not.”

“What,” Marius asks, and he, Éponine, and Combeferre turn to follow her gaze. The jock is reaching down to yank Courfeyrac back up, and Éponine’s expression goes completely black.

“Motherfucker,” she snarls, and she darts through the crowd, Cosette on her heels before the boys can stop them. They reach the scene before even the bartender can try to step in. He sees that Éponine is on the case, and he stops, hanging back to watch.

“Excuse me,” Éponine says, polite words but a decidedly impolite tone. “Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Back off, sweetheart,” the jock says.

“I’m thinking no,” she retorts. “Let my friend go.”

“Your friend is a little fairy who needs to be taught to keep his fucking hands off people,” the guy growls.

Éponine’s eyes narrow. “Oh, I’m sorry. That’s my mistake. I hadn’t realized that you have a tiny dick, and that you’re just worried about another dude seeing it. I hadn’t realized that was the problem here.”

“The fuck,” the guy snarls, and he pushes Courfeyrac away. Cosette catches him and brings him back a few steps. She reaches out to accept the cold, unopened beer that Joly is holding and presses it to Courfeyrac’s swelling cheek. He winces, and she kisses his forehead before turning back in time to see Éponine duck out of the way of the guy’s grabbing hands. She uses the momentum to throw him into a stool.

The guy hits it hard, going down in a flailing mess of limbs. There’s a crowd gathering around them. The regulars are all grinning. The jock pushes himself up, and he looks murderous. “You fucking bitch,” he cries and lunges for Éponine. She dodges again, far more fluid and graceful, and it takes her only one more punch, a well-aimed hit that connects solidly with the guy’s temple, for her to put him down. He drops like a sack of bricks, and the crowd cheers.

He lies sprawled out on the floor, dizzy but still conscious. Éponine steps up to him and very deliberately puts the heel of one boot over his crotch. She presses down until the jock whimpers. “Let me make something very, very clear to you, cockface,” she says, tone low and dark and deadly. “You do not fuck with any of my boys. Consider this your warning. If I see you again, in here or anywhere else, and you so much as look our way funny, I will not hesitate to put you in the fucking hospital, do I make myself perfectly clear?”

He whimpers again, and Cosette is positive that he’s seconds away from soiling himself.

“Good,” Éponine says, and she stomps down. He howls and curls in on himself. She turns to his shocked friends and says, “Get him the fuck out of my bar.”

They’re too stunned to move until the bouncer appears behind them and says, “You heard the lady.” Then they’re scrambling to pull their friend to his feet and flee the bar. The regulars all cheer again, several patting Éponine on the back or holding up hands for high fives.

She exchanges a nod with the manager and turns to her fallen friend. “How you doing, Courf,” she asks.

“Oh, you know, pretty good,” he answers, still wrapped up in Cosette’s arms while she peppers his face with kisses and insists to the bartender that she needs access to the kitchen to make cookies because cookies are the cure to any and all pains.

About an hour later, after Cosette has Courfeyrac settled in a stool with a fresh platter of cookies and Bahorel, who had wanted to follow the guys and jump them, has been contained—“Éponine stomped the guy’s nuts,” Combeferre had said, “Anything you do now is just overkill.”—Cosette turns to Éponine and says, “Awesome right hook.”

“Way to stage a hostile takeover of the kitchens,” Éponine returns, popping a cookie into her mouth. They share a grin, and suddenly, they realize that Marius isn’t the only thing they have in common. They have all of these boys, who they are willing to do just about anything for to protect and take care of. It’s kind of a ridiculous thing, but friendship comes pretty easily after that. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> super short I know, I'm sorry

Grantaire does not paint in front of people. They’ve all seen him sitting around with sketchbooks—Courfeyrac and Bahorel have both more than once made the appropriate “draw me like one of your French girls” jokes—but no one has seen him paint, except for Éponine, and she wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Because watching Grantaire paint is a little bit terrifying.

The one time Éponine sees it, they’re sitting around Grantaire’s apartment. It’s midterms, and they’ve both got a stressfully increased workload. She sits curled up on the couch, wearing too large socks and a sweatshirt that she lifted from his room. Her notes are spread all around the coffee table—really it’s a ping pong table that he’s sawed the legs down on—two pencils in her hair and a highlighter between her teeth as she flips through pages.

Grantaire had previously been sketching, but he jumps up almost startlingly fast. He goes into the kitchenette and pours a large glass of whiskey, which he downs in two gulps. He disappears back into his room for a moment and returns with an easel, a canvas, numerous paints and brushes, and a large bottle of red wine. He sets everything up in a corner, dragging over a stool to place the bottle upon.

At first Éponine watches with intrigue. She’s never seen him paint, and that he’s doing it in front of her suggests a new level of trust. But the flattery she feels soon gives way to a wary unease.

Grantaire pours out the paints, mixing large globs of color. He stares at the canvas with intense eyes for a moment before he begins. His process is basically to paint for a few moments, then to step back, staring with wide, increasing wild eyes. He twirls the brush between fingers, staining them with color. He makes a few more strokes and steps back again. He abandons the brush, bringing his hands up to scrub at his face, smearing paint there. He narrows his eyes and takes a large pull from the wine. This process is repeated until the wine is almost gone. By then, he looks like a madman. He paces in front of the canvas, circles it like a predator, growling at it. He stops, frozen to the spot. Then he lets out a something like a battle cry, throws the brushes in his hand, and knocks the entire thing over with an enraged backswing of his arm.

Éponine is too shocked to scream. She just sits there, heart racing and not daring to move or make a noise.

Grantaire then reaches down, pulls up the canvas to eye level, and glares at it. And, suddenly, his expression lightens with something like surprise, and he says, “Awesome.” He stands there beaming, covered in color like he got into a fight with the paint department at Home Depot and lost—but is happy about it for some reason—and props the canvas against the wall to dry.

“So, you want some sandwiches or something,” he asks, breezing by her and into the kitchen like he’s not a crazy person. Éponine agrees because that just seems like the safe thing to do. 


	12. Chapter 12

It’s midterms, and everyone has split up to their sacred spaces to study. Éponine has returned home and called Courfeyrac to come help her with her Economics project. “Aren’t you in this class with Grantaire,” Courfeyrac asks when he arrives. “Wouldn’t he be a better help?” Éponine just stares at him with wide eyes and shakes her head.  She looks a bit haunted, so Courfeyrac doesn’t pry further.

They settle into the couch, she with her Econ and he with 18th century European History, and there’s a large pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen. Gavroche is stay with Éponine, and after an initial five minutes of excited babble at seeing Courfeyrac, he’s banned to the back room while they try to get work done.

The entire process of having his nose buried in a book has never meshed well with Courfeyrac, and he’s bored quickly. Éponine is the same, and after the second time she’s gotten a refill and the sixth time she’s shifted position, Courfeyrac can’t take it anymore.” I’m bored,” he says.

“Me too, but midterms,” she answers.

"We’ve been at it almost two hours. That’s impressive; we deserve a break. We could have sex," Courfeyrac suggests, and Éponine nearly chokes when her coffee goes down the wrong pipe.  
  
"What," she gasps.  
  
"Everyone else is being lame," Courfeyrac says mournfully, waving his phone at her. "Even Grantaire is studying tonight. Like, not doing art stuff but actually studying."  
  
"Really," Éponine asks. "Weird."  
  
"It's at proverbial gunpoint," he explains. "Enjolras hasn't slept in about a week, and he's on the war path about everyone's midterms, and he said that R is the only one that can't be trusted to take his grades seriously on his own, so Enjolras will just have to stand over him and force him to study."  
  
Éponine sighs. "That kid has got to learn how to loosen up."  
  
"Having sex for a change would help," Courfeyrac says. "Speaking of."  
  
Éponine fixes him with an expression that is half exasperation and half fondness. "You do remember that my little brother is staying with me this week, right? He's in the next room playing video games."  
  
"So he's totally distracted," Courfeyrac says.  
  
Laughing, Éponine says, "You are an actual horndog."  
  
"You wouldn't guess looking at me," Courfeyrac says, gesturing to his angelic little face. Éponine can't help it. She reaches over and ruffles his curls the way Cosette constantly does. He whines and swats her hands away. "People used to take me way more seriously before she showed up," he grumbles, knowing exactly what Éponine was thinking.  
  
"You don't do yourself any favors by accepting all the bag lunches she makes you," Éponine says.  
  
"She takes off the crusts on the sandwiches and cuts them diagonal," Courfeyrac protests.  
  
"And the cookies," Éponine continues.  
  
"You find me a bakery that sells better ones, I dare you," he challenges.  
  
"She's taking you to Disney World," Éponine says deadpanned. "And that's not a joke. You two actually have a Disney World funds jar at her apartment, and it’s filling up."  
  
Courfeyrac stares at her for a moment with narrowed eyes. Finally he says, "All you have done here is illustrated that Cosette loves me more than the rest of you. I win."  
  
Éponine leans towards him with a cheeky grin. "Yet I notice you aren't having sex with anyone right now." She laughs when he throws a pillow at her.

 


	13. Chapter 13

If they aren’t out at the bar, they usually tend to stick to either Enjolras’s or Courfeyrac and Marius’s apartments, the latter because there’s more room and the former because there’s better furniture. Also the heater doesn’t kick off in the winter.

But this time they find themselves crowding up the stairs towards Joly and Jehan’s place when Cosette catches sight of the pool area. “You have a hot tub,” she cries.

“Where,” Éponine asks, ducking down to try to put her head closer to Cosette’s level.

“Yeah,” Jehan says from the top of the line. “Never been in it.”

“Certainly not,” Joly adds, shuddering.

“Marius, my bag,” Cosette demands, and blinking, he hands her the purse that he had been carrying for her. “Oh, no, the one in my car,” she says, fishing out her keys and pressing them into his hand. “I have a beach bag in the trunk. It’s got a couple of suits in there.”

“Good call. Last time I went swimming in bra and underwear, someone couldn’t keep their mouth shut about it,” Éponine says with a dirty look in Courfeyrac’s direction. He just grins and shrugs.

Cosette makes a face. “It’s the same thing, basically. I swear, I do not understand you boys and this fascination with girls’ undergarments and boobs. I mean, really, what’s the appeal? I don’t get it. If it were up to me, I’d be done with them.”

“I wouldn’t,” Éponine says. “Remember that time we went to Randall’s and you got all that free cheese?”

Cosette pauses and considers this. “I withdraw my previous statement,” she concludes.

They get upstairs, and Éponine yells at Bahorel as he slips past to jump into the only bathroom. “We need that,” she hollers, banging on the door.

“And I’ve had to pee for like an hour,” he yells back. “Just go in the bedroom.”

“Rude,” she snaps, letting Cosette drag her through the apartment. They get back into Jehan’s room and start changing. Éponine does so about five times faster than Cosette because Cosette is a neat freak who has to properly fold each article of clothing before storing it back in the bag. Éponine sticks her head out to ask Jehan about beach towels, and a passing Grantaire comments, “Aw, you have a mole on your ass. That’s cute.”

Cosette jumps, nearly falling on her face as she tries to finish pulling up her bottoms at the same time. “Éponine, you’re supposed to be watching the door,” she shrieks.

“Ashley Katchadourian isn’t even in charge of the door,” Courfeyrac hollers from the living room.

“She’s in charge of snacks,” Bossuet adds. “What the fuck is she doing letting people in the door?”

“You two are such nerds,” Marius says.

A few moments later, as the girls are walking out, Grantaire pipes up, “Hang on. I’m coming with you. I’ve got wisdoms to share.”

Éponine, having been distracted smacking Bahorel on the arm, turns and asks, “Wait, did you just say wisdom or whiskey?”

“Yes,” Grantaire answers.

They all end up down by the pool. A few of the boys roll up their pants to stick their feet in the water. Joly very firmly sits on a towel from his apartment and is careful not to touch the deck furniture. “I’ve seen people having sex out here,” he protests when he’s teased. “And I’m pretty sure management didn’t clean up after them.”

Enjolras too stays out of the water, just sort of standing back. “Come on, it’s warm,” Courfeyrac says.

Enjolras just glances down, and Grantaire snorts. “His pants are too tight to roll up. Get them from the girls department?”

“Oh, shut up,” Enjolras retorts.

They all stay fairly tame for a little while, but soon enough the cooler starts to empty, and they’re getting louder, and, as always, it’s Grantaire that sends it over the line. He’s walking back from the cooler, and he can’t help but zero in on Enjolras. Not that that’s out of the ordinary, but this time, it’s for an entirely different reason. He’s leaning over the edge of the hot tub, reaching for the empty cans that Éponine is passing off. It’s just perfect, and he can’t help himself. It only takes one little push, and Enjolras splashes down in a mess of flailing limbs.

Cosette and Éponine scream indignantly as they’re hit with the wave of water. Courfeyrac laughs loudly, and Combeferre tries to hide his smirk behind his hand, but it’s not working too well. Enjolras resurfaces, and he looks murderous. He wipes dripping hair from his eyes, and if looks could kill, Grantaire would have been rotting in hell about ten years ago.

“Oooh fuck, you’re in so much trouble,” Bossuet says.

“Release the Kraken,” Grantaire laughs, doubled over, because really, Enjolras has all the dignity of a drowned rat right now, and if he’s only got a few seconds to live, he’s going to spend them laughing. Of course, beings that he can barely stand, he isn’t able to move fast enough when Enjolras half leaps out of the hot tub and jabs at the back of Grantaire’s knees. He’s standing too close to the edge of the pool, and when he goes down, that’s where he falls.

“Motherfucker, that’s cold,” he yelps as he resurfaces.

“Oh my God, Grantaire, get out of there,” Joly cries. “You’ll catch your death of cold.”

Marius hurries over to the side of the pool to help him out, which leaves him completely vulnerable to the sneak attack from Cosette and Éponine. The girls come from out of nowhere, slamming into Marius and sending him toppling into the water over Grantaire’s head.

“Why,” he wails, and the girls high five.

It’s then that Combeferre notices Courfeyrac staring at him. “Don’t you dare,” he warns, but it’s no use. Courfeyrac lunges at him, and they’ve got each other in headlocks as they fight. Eventually Courfeyrac gets a hit that allows him to grab Combeferre around the waist and lift him up. He drops them both into the pool.

Cosette and Éponine turn and hold out their hands to Enjolras. “No,” he says.

“Come on,” Cosette says.

“You’re already wet,” Éponine points out. They stare him down until he sighs and takes their hands. They all leap in together.

“I told you that was a bad idea,” Joly says the next day at Enjolras’s apartment as he passes out soup. They’re all wrapped up in blankets and sniffling. Between them, they’ve already used four boxes of tissues.

“Dis isth all your fault, Grandaire,” Enjolras whines, leaning heavily against him.

“Worth it,” he answers. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, this is the last chapter for the amis sophomore year. Next update starts junior

They’re sitting at the bar, waiting for the refills on their wine. The conversation is light, just sort of a back and forth about high school nonsense. Suddenly, passing by, Grantaire stops and wraps his arms around Éponine, rocking her so much that she is nearly uprooted from the chair. She shrieks, but she’s not actually surprised or worried about falling. Grantaire would catch her. She laughs and pushes him off her. He plants a smacking kiss to her cheek and is gone as quickly as he came.

Éponine smiles fondly after him, and when she turns her attention back to Cosette, the other girl has a slyly interested expression. “So, Grantaire,” she asks. “Is that something?” She pauses. “Is this okay to talk about?” They’ve come leaps and bounds since St. Patrick’s Day, but Cosette doesn’t want to overstep her boundaries.

“It’s fine,” Éponine says. “And also, no, just no.”

“Why not,” Cosette asks. “I mean, I’ve seen you two kiss a couple of times.”

“Oh, that’s just a drunk thing,” Éponine says. “You know, getting a little over affectionate. Don’t get me wrong, Grantaire is a sweet guy, when he’s not trying to outdo himself, but neither of us is interested in being someone’s second choice.”

“Who,” Cosette starts to ask, her eyes following Grantaire’s trek across the bar to drop down on the couch in between Enjolras and Combeferre, who were attempting to do research for their latest debate meeting. Combeferre just smoothly slides his notes out of Grantaire’s way and keeps highlighting, but Enjolras turns to scold Grantaire for interrupting them, and Grantaire seems to soak in the attention.

“Oh,” Cosette cries, a little too loudly. It gets Marius and Jehan’s attention.

“What,” they ask.

“Nothing, I’m not talking to you,” Cosette almost snaps, her eyes wide. Éponine almost chokes laughing at the boys’ faces. The both look like kicked puppies; Jehan actually has his hand on his chest. Cosette seems to realize that she was a little harsh there and adds, “I’m sorry. I’ll make you cookies later, but right now, women are talking.” At that moment, their drinks come, and Cosette somehow manages to grab both them and Éponine and drag her to the opposite end of the bar.

“Okay,” she says as they settle into their new seats. “Okay, now that you’ve pointed it out, I feel like a complete idiot having not seen it before. How long?”

“He fell completely head over heels the moment he met Enjolras,” Éponine says. She thinks briefly that really she shouldn’t be gossiping about this, but really, they’ve all talked about it before. Everyone knows, and Cosette is part of the group now.

“Has he ever said anything,” Cosette asks. “To Enjolras?” Éponine fixes her with a look, and Cosette throws up her free hand. “I don’t know. He might have gotten drunk and made a pass. I don’t know.”

“He’s actually really, really good at not being that kind of person,” Éponine says. “I mean, making a drunk pass on someone who wouldn’t want it. If the other person is feeling the same vibe, he’s all over it. I mean, he and Courfeyrac go at it every few weeks or so.”

Cosette makes a face, and Éponine laughs. “He is not a pure and innocent angel, Cosette.”

“I want to take him to Disney World,” she says, slightly maniacal. Éponine rolls her eyes. Cosette has always considered Courfeyrac to be adorable—and of course she’s completely right; the boy is the cutest cutie to ever cute—but since St. Patrick’s Day, she’s sort of unofficially adopted him. Courfeyrac eats it up. Literally. She basically makes all his meals.

“Anyway,” Éponine drawls. “You’ve met Enjolras. If it isn’t part of the life plan, he doesn’t notice it.”

“Well, that’s not entirely true,” Cosette defends. “I mean, he cares about all of us. He’s just—“ She trails off, struggling to come up with the right words.

“Overly and almost psychotically focused on social justice,” Éponine says. “That’s about the nicest way to put it.”

Cosette makes a face again but nods her agreement. “So, Enjolras has no clue,” she asks.

“Not in the slightest,” Éponine answers. “We’re actually trying to figure out if he even has a sex drive.”

Cosette considers that. “Come to think of it, yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look interested in anyone, even briefly,” she says. “Poor Grantaire. Does the—um—does the drinking have anything to do—oh, I feel awful asking that.”

Éponine pats her arm. “He enjoyed the bottle long before we met him,” she says, and adds, “But it has gotten worse.”

Cosette’s leg starts to bounce in that way it does when she’s getting upset. She looks like she’s about three seconds from making a grocery list.

“What are you two talking about so intensely over here,” Courfeyrac asks above their heads. They twist on the couch to see him leaning against the back with an easy smile.

“Courf,” they exclaim, both grabbing his shirt and tugging until he climbs over the couch and places himself between them. He throws his arms out and they settle against him. “Girl talk.”

He stiffens for a second and looks back and forth between them suspiciously. “What kind of girl talk,” he asks.

“Not that, calm down,” Cosette says.

“E and R,” Éponine explains.

Courfeyrac blinks and then cranes his head to see across the bar. “What about them,” he asks. “Did something happen? I swear to God, if I lost that bet to Bahorel—“

“Nothing happened,” Éponine says, patting his knee. “Cosette’s just finally realized there’s a thing there.”

Courfeyrac considers this. “You’ve been in the group—what—six or seven months? Who had that slot?”

Cosette frowns. “How many bets exactly do you have regarding those two?”

“You’d have to ask Feuilly,” Courfeyrac says breezily. “He’s got the books.”

“Grantaire is going to kick all your asses when he finds out about those things,” Éponine says with a grin. “Make sure you text me. I want to see it.”

“So,” Courfeyrac asks, looking down at Cosette. “Thoughts?”

“Has anyone tried an intervention of sorts,” she asks.

“You mean playing match maker, trying to set them up,” Courfeyrac asks, his eyes lighting up.

“Oh, no,” Éponine says, her mind already racing with all the ways this could crash and burn. “Let’s not. Let’s just leave well enough alone.”

“What,” Courfeyrac asks, rounding on her. “What’s wrong with me sticking my nose in someone else’s business?”

“This is going to end so badly,” Éponine mutters.

“Please,” Courfeyrac scoffs. “Have some faith in our abilities.”

“She got struck by a lightning bolt, and you break out into hives at the mere thought of potential commitment,” Éponine says dryly. “What in the world do either of you know about setting people up?”

“I have seen a lot of romantic comedies,” Cosette says.

“You watch them and laugh at them,” Éponine accuses. “Not with them. At them.”

“Maybe if they weren’t all terrible clichés,” Cosette defends herself.

“Honey, you’re kind of a terrible cliché,” Courfeyrac says.

“You hush or no cookies,” Cosette warns, and Courfeyrac mimes locking his mouth. She looks around him to Éponine. “Would it really be so bad to try to set something up so that Enjolras realizes Grantaire is in love with him?”

“With you two as the brains of the operation, yes,” Éponine answers. “Besides, you know Enjolras. If you try to explain something in an emotional capacity to him that isn’t about freedom, he just stares at you. Like, totally blankly and for a really long time.”

“It’s actually really creepy,” Courfeyrac admits. “It’s like a face you expect to see behind you in the mirror of a dark, abandoned bathroom.” Cosette nods solemnly.

“Please promise me that you aren’t going to do anything,” Éponine says. “For R’s sake.”

“But we’re doing it for him,” Cosette complains.

“I’m willing to lose a hook up buddy for the greater good,” Courfeyrac says. “Besides, Enjolras needs the lay more than I do. And let me tell you, Grantaire would make it really good for him. The things he can do with his—“

“Okay there,” Éponine cries. “We do not need to know the details of your debauchery. Besides, you’re about to make Cosette cry.” 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we've moved on to the junior years. idk how this happened, but in writing all this, somehow Grantaire, Courfeyrac, Eponine, and Cosette became a little clique within in the Amis. So here's a chapter celebrating that. 
> 
> Also, I tend to not feel that a fic is successful until someone wonders "at what point this became his life." It's finally happened. I can now be pleased with this story.

The problem with trying to watch a movie with Cosette is that she can't not talk. Marius has stopped trying to take her out to the movies, because they always get kicked out. Feuilly actually screams at her when the theater staff escorts the group out of _The Hobbit_ within the first hour. "2003, Cosette! I have been waiting since 2003 for this moment. That is nine years, Cosette. Nine years. I have been waiting nine years to be reunited with Middle-Earth, and you have robbed me of it. I have been betrayed!"  
  
It's about at that point in the rant that he falls to his knees in the middle of the parking lot and begins wailing, Bahorel standing over him with a longsuffering expression as he pats Feuilly's back.  
  
And Cosette knows that it bothers most of her friends, but she really can't help it. It's an old habit from childhood. She and her father always talk and laugh over movies. It's their favorite game to have a running commentary on whatever they're watching. The only one who is solely okay with her tendency is Grantaire, but that's just because he's an asshole and talks over movies to annoy everyone.  
  
Another problem is that if Cosette is allowed to make the decision, every time she will choose the terrible, poorly acted, bad effects monstrosity. The guys who made Mystery Science Theater just wish they could get their hands on her collection. And so when Cosette tries to invite everyone over for movie nights, she's almost always turned down. Joly has more than once faked illness (he one time actually said, "It's a rare jungle fever; you've probably never heard of it."), Enjolras has hung up on her without a word, and Marius claims that "no amount of sex is worth a repeat of _Laserblast_."  
  
She's had to resort to trickery to get people to watch things with her, luring them over to her apartment with sweet promises of cookies. Most of them are starting to catch onto the cookies excuse, except for Courfeyrac, bless him. He always comes running.  
  
Once she has him in her grasp, she calls up Éponine, making sure to go with Face Time. It doesn't work if the other girl can't see her. Éponine is never fooled by cookies or other treats, so Cosette is forced to be straight and honest with her. But that doesn't mean she can't try to make her eyes as big as possible and stick out her bottom lip just so. Éponine groans, and Grantaire sticks his face into the camera's sight. "We'll bring vodka," he promises.  
  
They arrive fifteen minutes later, and Grantaire grins and brandishes the large bottle, sweeping inside with a kiss to Cosette's cheek. Éponine follows with hunched shoulders and a foul expression. "I don't understand how you do that," she complains. "You just—with the face and the eyes—and dammit, I'm not even trying to sleep with you, but you give that look, and I just cave. How do you do that?"  
  
The others get settled in, and Cosette triumphantly holds up her copy of _The Beast of Yucca Flats_. From his spot on the arm chair, Courfeyrac whines, his mouth half full of cookies, "It's not even the MST3K version."  
  
"You stay there or no super special birthday cannoli," Cosette warns, and Courfeyrac gasps. Cosette makes awesome cookies, but her cannoli are the stuff of legend. Since she came into the group, she's made everyone a batch on their birthdays and only their birthdays, so the chance to get two in a year, Courfeyrac will sit through anything.  
  
Cosette instructs Grantaire to put the movie in while she skips back to her room to get into comfy movie watching clothes. She returns almost completely lost in an overly large and plush robe that goes down to her feet. "Sexy," Courfeyrac comments, and Grantaire snickers.  
  
"Robes are the best thing in the world, and I will not apologize for them," Cosette says. "Plus, feel it." She holds out her arm, and the others all touch the material and let out soft ooohs.  
  
"I want to make a nest out of that thing," Grantaire says.  
  
"It's like a cloud of peace and happiness," Éponine says in awe. "You got another one?"  
  
"Not like this exactly, but there are options. I've got, like, a thousand robes."  
  
"A thousand," Grantaire asks dryly. "You've got a thousand robes?"  
  
Cosette shrugs. "Or eight."  
  
"She's got eight or a thousand robes," Grantaire comments, sharing a grin with Courfeyrac.  
  
Cosette huffs and leads Éponine into the back. When they come back out, Éponine is also wearing a full length robe, but unlike Cosette's, hers is made of a light silk. The boys touch it, and Courfeyrac says, "It's like someone figured out how to make water into a material. Jehan would write freaking poetry about this thing."  
  
Grantaire rubs the material between his fingers and looks up. "So you said you had at least eight robes," he begins.  
  
Two hours later Marius unlocks the door to Cosette's apartment, Enjolras and Combeferre on his heels. Normally the other two would have just waited in the car while Marius came to collect the others for their bar night, but when at Cosette's place, strength in numbers is required to keep from being swallowed up by her big doe eyes as she pleads for them to join in on her movie watching.  
  
They're expecting to have to bodily tear Courfeyrac away from a platter of cookies, but they aren't expecting to walk in and see Cosette, Grantaire, Éponine, and Courfeyrac all squeezed into one couch in a tangle of bodies and all four wearing women's robes.  
  
"Do we even want to know," Enjolras asks with an arched brow.  
  
"Only if it interests you to know how human kind has learned to sew dreams into garments," Grantaire slurs and nuzzles his head against Éponine's shoulder.  
  
"So that's a no," Enjolras sighs.  
  
"Come," Cosette declares from under Grantaire's arm, "come and join the illustrious ranks of the robe ladies!"  
  
Around the giggles from the couch, Enjolras turns to Marius and says, "He's ruining her. I'm sorry for your loss."  
  
They don't make it to the bar that night, but they do manage to get Marius and Combeferre to put on robes too. Enjolras sighs and wonders when this became his life.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a request for Montparnasse. And thanks to Pembroke over on tumblr, Montparnasse/Jehan has been growing on me, so here we go.

Courfeyrac has the same arrangement with Jehan as he has with Grantaire. They occasionally fuck around. It’s pretty much just for fun, as Courfeyrac is in no way looking for a monogamous relationship. He’d been worried about actually starting the thing up with Jehan at first, because Jehan is such a sweet romantic, but it turns out he’s sort of a freak in bed and perfectly capable of separating friendship from sex, so it ends up working out.

Courfeyrac is certainly not in love with anyone, but the people that he sleeps with more than once, he does love them all. He wouldn’t go back for multiple servings if he didn’t. Courfeyrac is all about having fun and getting off, but he’s not okay with using someone like that. He counts Jehan and Grantaire among his closest friends, and with them, he thinks the sex has only made their friendships stronger. It gives him insights into Grantaire that the other man would never share out loud, and it lets him see that Jehan is far more than pretty words and clashing floral prints.

The first time they sleep together, Jehan doesn’t even question that he’s staying the night. He just pulls out, cleans them up, and buries into the covers. It’s the opposite of what Courfeyrac has to do months later with Grantaire, basically wrapping him up in a koala grip to keep him from leaving and potentially making their next meeting awkward.

The only downside to sharing a bed with Jehan is that Jehan is a massive covers hog. That first night Courfeyrac wakes up in the morning, completely naked and completely exposed to the ridiculously overzealous AC of his dorm blowing right on him, and Jehan is beside him, completely cocooned in his blankets. Shivering, he shakes Jehan awake, and Jehan is so sweet and sorry for taking all the covers, pulling Courfeyrac into his arms and proceeding to do an excellent job in warming him up again.

It doesn’t take Courfeyrac long to figure out that it’s sort of a habit of Jehan’s. He tosses a lot as he sleeps and always ends up with all the blankets. Courfeyrac is constantly waking up cold and shivering, so he tries keeping an extra blanket on the floor that he can just grab after Jehan has stolen the others.

He’s dismayed to wake up the next morning to find that Jehan has gotten a hold of that one too.

Jehan is always very sorry for taking all the covers, and Courfeyrac can’t really blame him, as he’s doing it in his sleep. Finally, he’s forced to resort to just using the burrito poet as his means of staying warm at night. It’s ridiculous, and he’s just glad that Jehan is a small, slight thing or else he’d be trading out freezing for not being able to breathe.

It’s still not the best method, and he actually gets a cold once from it. Of course, that had been his own fault for suggesting shower sex right before bed. Joly is doing his usual fretting and trying to pull Jehan away from where he’s wrapped himself around Courfeyrac, half beside himself with guilt.

“It’s a cold, Jehan,” Bahorel says, handing Courfeyrac some soup. “How could his catching a cold possibly be your fault?”

And Courfeyrac explains Jehan’s sleeping habits, adding with a pat to Jehan’s knee, “I’m not blaming you. And really, it’s just the sniffles, not swine flu, Joly, calm down, and please take off that surgical mask.”

It ends up becoming a game one day when they are all over at Enjolras’s, draped over various pieces of furniture or the floor and watching a movie. Enjolras and Combeferre are completely immersed in planning a rally, and Cosette is pouting that no one wanted to watch _Robot Monster_. Jehan and Feuilly are on the floor, and Jehan has dozed off. Feuilly suddenly lets out a noise of complaint when Jehan rolls over and takes full control of the blanket they had been sharing.

Feuilly reaches to shake him awake and take it back when Bahorel hisses, “Wait.” He yanks a spare blanket out from behind Joly’s back, but when Feuilly reaches for it, he says, “This isn’t for you.” And he drapes it over Jehan, who rolls again, bringing the new blanket seamlessly into his burrito.

Bahorel grins. “I wonder how many we could get on him before he stops wrapping up.”

It’s a couple of months later that Éponine gets a visitor from home. It’s some guy in too tight and ripped jeans and a leather jacket, and they sort of all want to laugh at the clichéd tough guy image, but dude has some crazy eyes, and he might actually pull a knife on them, so they stay silent. He’s apparently an associate of Éponine’s father’s. They don’t really want to ask what kind of an associate.

The two end up in a screaming match about something that sounds pretty shady, and Bahorel is actually considering stepping in, something he’d normally never do with Éponine’s business because she’d let him have it, before they suddenly stop yelling and make plans to go grab some drinks after her last class the following day.

“Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll ask,” Grantaire finally says long moments after the man has left. “Who was the scary probably has served a decent stint in prison man who you just made drink plans with?”

“Montparnasse,” Éponine says. “How to describe Montparnasse?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not flawless or doing car commercials in Japan,” Bahorel says, cracking his knuckles.

“Not even a little bit,” Éponine agrees. “He’s—he’s a dick, yeah, and definitely dangerous, but he can be really nice. It’s—you have to be one of his people, but if he considers you his, then he’ll do anything in the world for you.”

Even though they’re more than positive that Éponine can handle herself, Bahorel and Grantaire manage to insist on getting drinks with her. They end up with Feuilly and Jehan too, and they’re all treated to the very interesting sight of Jehan and Montparnasse running their eyes up and down each other in the most unsubtle way imaginable.

It’s impossible to miss, and so when Éponine takes Montparnasse outside for a smoke—and to lay into him—the other three turn incredulously to Jehan. “Montparnasse, are you kidding me,” Feuilly cries.

“I’m going to kick his ass,” Bahorel snarls.

“Oh, no you aren’t,” Jehan says firmly. “He hasn’t done anything.” Then he adds far too saucily, “Yet.”

Éponine and Montparnasse come back inside to see Bahorel trying to escape his friends’ grasp. Grantaire is on his back, trying both to get him in a choke hold and avoid Bahorel slamming his head back into his nose. Jehan and Feuilly are each wrapped around an arm and a leg, and Jehan is red-faced and screaming that if Bahorel ruins this for him then he’s going to break into the announcer’s booth at Bahorel’s next match and recite the most graphic homoerotic poetry he can get his hands on.

Montparnasse knocks Éponine’s shoulder and says, “Oh yeah, I definitely like him.”

They end up becoming a thing, a thing that absolutely does not match but somehow works. Montparnasse ends up being around more often, and it’s kind of freaky at first, but Jehan assures them all that he’s harmless. “Well, not harmless,” he amends with a blush after he’s met with several arched brows and Joly’s hysterical squeal of laughter. “But I mean the world to him, and you all mean the world to me, so he’s not going to ever do anything to any of you. I promise.”

And it’s true. Once they start to relax a little bit, Montparnasse feels a lot less threatening. They become comfortable enough with him that Courfeyrac is fairly certain he won’t be castrated when he drops a hand on his shoulder and says, “I’m going to give you some words of wisdom that I have learned over the past few years. Keep a set of pajamas by the bed for after sex and the record blanket count is fifteen.”

He walks away laughing at Montparnasse’s endless confusion and Jehan’s blushing giggles. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it's been a bit since the last updates, so have some E/R bonding to make up for it

Something Grantaire has learned over the years is that when life shits, it tends to shit on the same people. That’s why Éponine has the parents that she has and is barely pulling by with her student loans. On the opposite side, that’s why freaking Enjolras is as clean as a whistle, with loving and supportive parents, good money, and a face that makes angels weep. But at least in his case, Grantaire has to admit, he’ll use every ounce what he has to help people who need it.

Grantaire is more like Éponine. Sure, he comes from a well off family—a very well off family, actually—but his parents are glorified assholes. They don’t particularly care for their son, and they only seem to talk to him when they’re berating him for his life choices. Or, you know, for his simple existence. In his parents’ eyes, Grantaire has never been able to do anything right, so he stopped trying a long time ago. By now, almost everything he does is done with the purpose of pissing them off in some fashion or another.

He wakes up one morning in the middle of October with a sinking feeling in his gut, but it’s not until he gets back from his afternoon studio that the foreboding feeling finally has a clear reason for existing. His father is standing in the middle of his living room, carefully not touching any of the excessive mess around him. “Motherfucker,” Grantaire says eloquently, and his father glares. Yeah, not the best way to start this whole thing off, but then again, in his almost twenty-one years, Grantaire still hasn’t managed to find that one out yet.

Grantaire knows what this is going to be about before his father ever opens his mouth. Grantaire’s grandfather had died a few weeks previously, and old Pop-Pop was the only member of Grantaire’s family who hadn’t thought him worthless and had tried to impress upon him the importance of living his own life rather than what others expected of it. Grantaire has no siblings and only two cousins. All of Pop-Pop’s estate is to be split between them, but, his face sour, Grantaire’s father informs him that Grantaire’s share is significantly larger.

 “You don’t deserve this generosity,” he continues. Grantaire has heard it all before. He’s aimless, unambitious, a disgrace to the family name. “If you would just stop playing these games and fall into the fold.” Everyone else in the family, for years and years and years, has gone to school for business, with the exception of one uncle who is a brain surgeon.  “This art,” he scoffs, waving a hand to a significant part of the mess that includes various supplies and half-finished projects, “it’s childish, and you should have outgrown it years ago.”

Grantaire can’t help the smug smirk that stretches his lips as his father informs him, “If it were up to me, you wouldn’t see a cent of it.” But it’s not up to him. Sure, Grantaire’s father is the executor of the estate, but the will is clear. The money is in a trust fund that cannot be accessed until Grantaire’s twenty-first birthday, at which time it will be his and only his.

Unfortunately, Grantaire has never been the best at holding his tongue. He can’t help the smartassed comment, even as he knows what it’s going to lead to. The sharp slap of the hand connecting with his cheek isn’t a surprise. It’s not the first time he’s been struck by his father, and he doubts it will be the last. Stars explode on the edges of his vision, and opening and closing his jaw sends a spark of pain across his face. Nothing’s broken, but it’s going to bruise and bruise spectacularly.

It leads to them screaming at each other, and the only reason it doesn’t escalade into further blows is because one of Grantaire’s neighbors bangs on the wall. It jerks his father away, a clear reminder that this apartment doesn’t offer the seclusion of his own house, that there are plenty of witnesses around. He straightens the lapels of his jacket and is gone in a flurry of scathing glares and a final cutting remark.

The door slams shut after him, and every ounce of energy is sucked out of Grantaire. His legs feel like rubber, and he can barely make his way to the counter to grab at a bottle of wine. He pulls the cork off with his teeth and starts chugging it down until he feels like he’s going to drown.

That’s how Enjolras finds him an hour later. He lets himself into Grantaire’s apartment—they’ve all had keys made for each other’s places; it’s just easier—and calls out, “Hey, R, I’ve got those pamphlets designs finalized. I was wondering if you could take a look at them, let me know what you think of the graphics.” He sees Grantaire slumped at the counter, still hanging onto the empty bottle, and he sighs, “Really, Grantaire, it’s not even four in the—“ He cuts off when Grantaire looks up and he really catches sight of him.

“Jesus Christ,” Enjolras whispers, dropping his bag and jacket and hurrying around the counter. “What happened to you?”

“I had—I had a really fucking awesome day,” Grantaire slurs, his voice slightly hysterical.

Enjorlas’s hands are on his shoulders. “Who did that to you,” he asks, blazing eyes fixated on the dark bruise.

The grin that twists his lips is not at all pleasant. “Daddy was in town,” he says. “Stopped by for a chat.”

“Your father did that,” Enjolras cries, outraged. Enjolras knows a little bit about how Grantaire doesn’t get along with his family, but he doesn’t know much because Grantaire absolutely Does Not Talk about it, to the point that he’d asked them all to not go home with him for his grandfather’s funeral when they offered.  

“’S not the first time,” Grantaire mutters.

“Not the—have you called the police,” he asks. “To press charges? Here, I’ll get them on the line.” And he’s fumbling in his pockets for his phone. Grantaire reaches out and grabs his wrist to stop him. He shakes his head, and Enjolras gapes. “But he struck you,” he cries. “Your father. That—that should be the furthest thing from his mind, and he—he should be held accountable.”

“My old man isn’t the kind of person who is held accountable,” Grantaire says bitterly. “He’s got pretty good lawyers.”

“So does my family,” Enjolras growls. “I’m positive my parents would be more than willing to help with this if you wanted to—“

“I don’t want to,” Grantaire says, and he just feels so exhausted. “Enjolras, can you—can you just do me a favor, and not? Can you just not, this one time?”

The look on Enjolras’s face is interesting, to say the least. He’s filled up with his righteous fury, but there’s something helpless in his eyes. It’s a brief moment of indecision, the rarest of occasions where Enjolras doesn’t know what to do. He’s battling with his instinctual drive to fight injustice and the more personal request to stand down from a friend.

“Please,” Grantaire almost chokes, and Enjolras deflates, nodding. It will turn out that Enjolras’s next crusade is against child abuse, and he’ll just lay a light hand on the back of Grantaire’s neck once and not say anything of it when Grantaire makes himself relatively scarce for the next couple of weeks.

They stand there for a moment just starting at each other before Enjolras says, “Just a minute.” He turns and grabs his keys from the counter. “I’ll be right back.” And he rushes out of the apartment, leaving Grantaire just standing there, unsure of what to do with himself.

Enjolras returns a brief moment later, holding out a large, well-worn sweatshirt. He instructs Grantaire to hold out his arms and carefully slips him into it, mindful of the bruise on his cheek. “I just came back from a laundry run,” he says, “and my mother always says that the first step to comfort is a too-big sweatshirt.”

Grantaire can’t help it. He looks up into that stupidly handsome and earnest face, and he just falls into Enjolras with a sob. Enjolras’s arms are around him immediately, holding him up and close and anchoring him. He lets Grantaire cling to him until Grantaire can’t stand any longer. Then he maneuvers them to the couch, tucking Grantaire into his side. Enjolras keeps one arm tight around him, the other sliding through his hair.

“He couldn’t be more wrong about you,” Enjolras says gently after Grantaire has blubbered out the gist of the earlier conversation. “You have great worth, and as for the aimlessness, maybe, but you’re young. I know you’ll find direction. You may have been born a cynic, but I know that you’ll find something to believe in.”

Grantaire’s heart seizes as Enjolras leans to rest their heads against each other. He’s already found it, he wants to say. Maybe not something, but someone.


	18. Chapter 18

 The first time Joly mentions this girl that he met in line at a bakery, everyone sends an awkward side glance at Bossuet, because Joly sounds very plainly smitten as he chatters on about her strawberry blond hair and sparkling green eyes. But Bossuet is just smiling at his boyfriend, their pinkies linked on top of the table. 

They meet the girl, Musichetta, a few weeks later. She walks into the bar, flanked on either side by Joly and Bossuet, and all three are holding hands. Courfeyrac and Cosette look like they’re practically salivating with the desire to ask what’s up, but Éponine keeps a firm grasp on their arms, ready to pinch at a moment’s notice.

 

Musichetta is a year older than the rest of them, finishing up a sociology degree, which gets Enjolras’s attention. It also turns out that Musichetta is very politically active, and they sort of laugh that their paths haven’t crossed before this, but apparently Musichetta focuses most of her efforts on women’s rights and family matters as opposed to Enjolras’s more broad anything and everything approach. The two become deeply engrossed in conversation regarding equal pay, and Joly clings to Musichetta’s arm with a pouty frown, and Bossuet chuckles and runs his hand through Joly’s hair as he gets up to refill their drinks.

 

Musichetta becomes a more permanent fixture in the group. Cosette and Courfeyrac still want to ask about the logistics of how the three’s relationship works, but they’ve been forbidden. Enjolras tends to collaborate with her and her other contacts for rallies and passing out flyers, and within a month, they’ve all got plans to attend a very large gathering to protest the harassment of women going into abortion centers.

 

Everyone is on edge, over excited and anticipating a rough time of it. Joly is practically shaking as he loads up numerous first aid kits. Bossuet and Musichetta take turns kissing his cheeks and promising him that everything will be just fine. He snorts at them and keeps rearranging the kits to fit the maximum amount of supplies.

 

By the time they get there, things are already pretty wild. Everyone hurries to get into their appropriate groups. Courfeyrac and Marius flank Cosette, sticking close to keep the small girl from being too badly jostled by the crowd. Grantaire and Bahorel do the same with Éponine. Montparnasse glares fiercely at anyone who dares to get too close to Jehan. Enjolras is front and center with Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet right on her heels. Feuilly and Combeferre are working with some of Musichetta’s girls to hand out flyers and keep an eye on the police.

 

It’s not really a civil thing from the get go. Enjolras jumps into his speeches with all of his usual passion, and Musichetta meets him head on with enthusiasm. They’ve got the pro crowd buzzing and screaming agreement, and all the fury gets thrown back at the anti-protestors.

 

Looking back, they’re pretty sure it wasn’t any of their people who started the fight, but when it does break out, they’re right in the middle of it. Someone lands a punch to Enjolras’s cheek, and Grantaire can’t go do anything about it because Bahorel has already shoved Éponine in to his arms and barreled his way into the fray. Then Montparnasse is there, herding the two and Jehan through the crowd. Bossuet and Joly lose Musichetta, and they’re both yelling for her, but Bossuet at least has the sense to grab Joly and pull him away.

 

The cops descend upon them, and people start trying to scatter. It’s chaos, and they’re all too separated and can’t see each other, and that’s terrifying when the cops actually make it to the last place they saw Enjolras and Musichetta. They don’t have any choice but to flee the scene and wait for the calls to regroup.

 

They end up slowly trickling into a coffee house several blocks away. Joly is a mess with his kits, and Jehan squeezes his old roommate’s shoulders before taking the cold packs to hand out to anyone who got knocked around. Some of Musichetta’s friends are placing orders for tea or water. Grantaire is pacing, swatting away attempts at comfort from Cosette, Éponine, and Courfeyrac. He takes a pull from his flask and glares fiercely at the barista who tries to scold him for it. Combeferre is standing at the door, his expression stony and his phone in hand. When it finally goes off, he doesn’t jump but answers it before the first ring is over.

 

The entire café goes quiet, everyone leaning slightly towards him to try to hear the low conversation. He hangs up and says, “They took Enjolras, Bahorel, and Musichetta in. Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet, we’ll go pick them up. Everyone else, head back to the apartment.”

 

Joly shoves the first aid kit into Jehan’s arms so fiercely he nearly falls over a table, and they’re out the door. The drive to the station is tense and silent, and Combeferre remains stone faced as he writes out a check to cover their bail. When the three make their appearance, they’re battered all to hell, but Musichetta is practically glowing. Joly runs a bit faster to her than Bossuet, and she grabs his face and kisses him soundly. He only whines a little bit about the blood from her nose that she smears on him, but he falls silent when Bossuet reaches them and pulls them into a massive hug. Combeferre silently takes in the damage done to Enjolras—a black eye and split lip—and Courfeyrac doesn’t have much time to ask Bahorel how he’s doing, as the other man just pulls him in a headlock and ruffles his hair.

 

They leave as quickly as possible, and Joly spends the ride back to the apartment crawling over all the seats to get to the three and check over their injuries. “Just wait,” Combeferre finally hisses when Joly accidentally elbows the back of his head and they almost swerve into another lane.

 

They’re descended on once again when they walk into Enjolras’s apartment, everyone reaching out to make sure they’re okay and not too roughed up. Grantaire snaps at all of them, and Cosette immediately forces cookies and hot chocolate into their hands. Enjolras and Musichetta are still buzzing from the rally—Bahorel mostly from the fight itself—and Musichetta turns to him and says, “You were absolutely on fire. We need to do this more often.” They bump fists, and poor Joly looks ready to faint.


	19. Chapter 19

Enjolras is on another one of his benders. Of course, benders for Enjolras aren’t what benders are for normal people. For him, it’s a spell of him staying up for a week straight trying to balance all his classes and organizations and on the side personal protests and campaigns. By the end of it, he always looks like death warmed over—yet still stupidly and unfairly attractive—and can barely stand. They’re all sort of worried he’s going to have an aneurism or something one day.

And so Grantaire takes it upon himself to put an early end to this particular round. During these bouts of insanity, Enjolras is never at the bar and rarely at his apartment. Instead he’s either locked in a library or haunting the student centers. As it turns out, Grantaire finds him in the back stacks in the basement of the government buildings. He’s got his own cart for dragging books around. Additionally there’s one stuffed under each arm, one held between his knees, and one he’s leafing through at an alarming pace.

Shaking his head, Grantaire strolls over and plucks it from his grasp. “What the,” Enjolras yelps, jumping a bit and blinking big eyes from behind the thick glasses that he only uses for reading. Grantaire relieves him of the other volumes, shoulders his bag, and grabs his arm to drag him away.

“Grantaire, what are you doing,” he hisses. “Let me go. I’ve got work to do.”

Grantaire ignores the protests, grinning a bit when Enjolras starts trying to fight back. On a normal day, they’re about evenly matched, but God only knows the last time Enjolras ate anything, and he certainly hasn’t slept in at least three days. His struggling does no good. As they pass the front desk, the librarian looks up. “Hello, Grantaire,” she smiles. She knows him pretty well from all the times he’s come down here to annoy Enjolras.

“Mrs. Mueller, evening,” he returns with a bow of his head. “Just borrowing him for a while.”

“Make sure he takes a nap,” she reminds him.

“This is a conspiracy,” Enjolras yells.

Grantaire manhandles Enjolras into the back of the cab he’d left waiting outside. He doesn’t own a car—he drinks too much, and just no, not taking that risk ever—and considering he’s planning on hardly being able to see straight at the end of the night, he’s not borrowing one of the others’. “What are you doing, Grantaire? This is ridiculous. I have work to do. Let me out of here.”

“Settle down there, princess,” Grantaire says, giving directions to the cabbie, who glances back worriedly over his shoulder at Grantaire fighting Enjolras from getting to the other door.

“Am I aiding and abetting a kidnapping,” he asks.

“Yes,” the boys answer, Enjolras with a growl and Grantaire with a grin. The cabbie stares back for another moment, shrugs, and pulls off from the curb.

When it becomes clear that he’s not getting out of the car, Enjolras snatches his hands away from Grantaire, crosses his arms, and sits up straight with his nose in the air. “What is the purpose of this,” he asks. “I do have work to finish.”

“The purpose, oh over-achieving one, is to give you a break before you drop dead from stress,” Grantaire says. “You can take off one night. I promise the world isn’t going to fall into a dystopian nightmare without your ever vigilant watch.”

They end up at a restaurant that Grantaire knows has at least a few vegan options—he's not actually looking to keep Enjolras going hungry—but he takes great pleasure at seeing Enjolras's face when he orders a bowl of venison chili. It launches a long debate about hunting and organizations like the CCA, which Grantaire has researched the ever-loving hell out of just for the express purposes of riling Enjolras up in this discussion. Enjolras is fuming, tearing into his veggie wraps, while Grantaire goes on about how it was actually the hunters and their rules and regulations that allowed for populations of whitetail deer to keep from being whipped out, both by over hunting and via starvation.  
  
This is shaping out to turn into a reprise of the Great Gun Control Debate, and it's only for the sake of not getting kicked out of the restaurant that they quiet down. At the bar, well, the owners and the staff know them well enough and tend to just let them scream at each other. Grantaire sort of wishes they were there now, because, dear sweet baby Jesus, Enjolras is something entirely beyond attractive when he gets like this. Grantaire's pretty sure the Great Gun Control Debate is the most turned on he's ever been in his life.  
  
After dinner, Enjolras thinks he's going to be allowed back to his studies—that's so cute—but sighs in disappointment as he's dragged into a bar down the street. "If we have to be at a bar, can't we be at the Musain," he asks.  
  
"Nope," Grantaire answers, ordering up two beers. "If we go there, you'll just do like you usually do and hunt down your super-secret stash of books, which, I shouldn't have to point out how wrong it is that you have textbooks stashed at a bar, but apparently that's the lot I've been dealt here, and the entire purpose of this would be negated."  
  
Enjolras just makes that Marge Simpson noise of disapproval, but considering he doesn't and never has watched television, he probably wouldn't get the reference.  
  
He makes the inevitable comment when Grantaire orders his fourth beer while Enjolras is still nursing his first. "The solution here is simple," Grantaire says. "You need to drink faster, because I'm not slowing down."  
  
"Unlike you, I don't enjoy hangovers," he says dryly.  
  
"So pop in an aspirin," Grantaire suggests. "It's either a headache easily cured with a greasy burger—or whatever the vegan equivalent of that is—and some orange juice, or you can deal with how irritated you'll be when I reach that level and you're stark sober. The choice is yours."  
  
He leers, which turns into a grin when Enjolras sighs and downs the rest of the beer, waving the bartender over for another.  
  
A couple of drinks later, Enjolras has started to loosen up. His shoulders aren't so tense and set, and he actually leans towards Grantaire while they talk. And they're actually talking, not arguing politics and social justice. It invariably leads to them playing Grantaire and Éponine's favorite game: Judge-A-Bitch.  
  
"Most would call that people watching," Enjolras says, the corners of his lips just barely quirked up.  
  
"People watching implies a lack of superior commentary," Grantaire says. "Come on, that's right up your alley. Give it a shot; there's plenty of the not your usual type of crowd here, all ripe for the pickings."  
  
Enjolras gives him that look that says he agrees but for the sake of principle and correct order of the universe, he's going to pretend he doesn't. But he isn't able to hold back the comment of, "There are a significant number of ridiculous people in this place. Is that girl wearing a tiara?"  
  
Grantaire leans back to see the girl in question, and indeed she does have a tiara perched on top of her hair. Grantaire squints against the low lights, but he doesn't see anything on it that indicates that the girl is either celebrating her birthday or a bachelorette party. He smirks and adds his two cents. "Bitch ain't no princess."  
  
Enjolras lets out a single bark of laugher, slapping his hand over his mouth immediately after, but his eyes are shinning, and Grantaire thinks to himself that he doesn't even care what happens for the rest of the night, because he made Enjolras laugh.  
  
Good God, he's pathetic.  
  
They stumble back into Enjolras’s apartment several hours later. Both are drunk, although Grantaire is significantly more so than Enjolras. But they’re stumbling at about the same level of intensity because Enjolras is a light weight. They’re leaning on the counter, and Enjolras pulls out his phone. Grantaire practically falls on him trying to see what he’s doing. “Aw, are you setting an alarm,” he whines.

“I have—I have things,” Enjolras insists, and Grantaire snickers. “And now juice,” Enjolras adds, dragging Grantaire with him to the refrigerator. He pours each of them a large glass of orange juice and stares Grantaire down until he takes both it and the offered aspirin. Enjolras gulps down the juice, and Grantaire tries and fails to not watch the way his throat works. He washes out the glass, refills it with water, and says, “Bed.”

Grantaire follows him back, because it’s only taken the suggestion of sleep for Enjolras to be swaying on his feet and fighting to keep his eyes open. He helps Enjolras get out of his jacket and button up and pull off his shoes. He starts to reach for Enjolras’s belt, but he stops suddenly. He’s really drunk right now, but he’s not so plastered that he can just roll with that. He chances a glance up, and Enjolras is just watching him with slightly glazed eyes and a light smile. Grantaire knows he’s not thinking the same thing Grantaire is. All Enjolras sees is his friend helping him get ready for bed when his own motor skills are a little bit shot.

“You’re—um—you’re good to go,” he stammers, standing back up straight. Never killed a man to sleep in his pants for a night.

Enjolras, who has sort of half been holding onto Grantaire’s shoulder for balance, slides his hand up to the back of Grantaire’s neck. He leans so that their foreheads are touching, and holy shit. This would be so easy. He’d only have to move just a little bit, and they would be kissing. And Enjolras is drunk and in a good mood, and he’d probably let Grantaire.

But he’s drunk. Grantaire wants it, wants it so bad that it’s an actual pain in his chest, but he doesn’t want it like that. He wants Enjolras to want him without the aid of alcohol to loosen inhibitions. He wants Enjolras to make the decision with a sound mind and not risk that he’d wake up the next morning saying it was a mistake. Grantaire wouldn’t be able to handle that. He’s barely able to handle things as is.

“Thanks for tonight,” Enjolras says, voice low and husky, and God, he probably has no idea that he’s even doing that and what it sounds like. He sounds like that, but he’s just thanking Grantaire for being his friend, and God, that hurts.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says around a dry throat. “Go to bed. You’ve got things.”

“Yes, things,” Enjolras agrees, eyes already shut as Grantaire lowers him down onto the bed and pulls a blanket up around his shoulders. Enjolras snuggles into his pillow, hugging it with a peaceful smile on his face. Grantaire turns and all but flees the bedroom for the minor sanctuary of the couch.  
  
The next morning, Grantaire is awoken by silverware clinking against each other a few feet away from his head in the kitchenette. Enjolras says something, and he very much ignores it. He’s not sure what time it is, but he’s positive that it’s entirely too early. He groans pathetically as Enjolras tries to shove him off the couch. God, his head. "I'm not leaving you here to decimate my pantry, R," Enjolras says. "Get up. I have to get back to the library."  
  
"I hate your voice right now," Grantaire mumbles into the pillow. That's actually only half true, but he's just going to focus on the negative right now. He whimpers and tries to sink into the cushions.  
  
"You know, this is actually the most wretched after a night out I've seen you in a while," Enjolras muses without sympathy.  
  
"I don't drink as much beer as I used to," Grantaire grumbles his explanation. It gives him the worst fucking hangovers.  
  
"That's because you replaced it with whiskey," Enjolras counters.  
  
"My pallet has become more sophisticated," he agrees, and doesn't see the slight fondness that Enjolras puts into the rolling of his eyes.  
  
"If I leave you here, will you promise to not eat all my food," he asks, and Grantaire just shoots him a thumbs up from under the blankets. Enjolras sighs. "I'll be back...sometime."  
  
As it turns out, Grantaire does eat a significant portion of the sparsely stocked pantry and just grins through Enjolras's rant three days later that I-was-tired-and-I-came-home-to-no-food-and-I-told-you-not-to-touch-it-do-you-even-know-expensive-those-vegan-snack-cakes-are?


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Victor Hugo's zombie is probably slowly on his way to find me and punch me in the face for the things I do to his characters. I apologize for everything that this fic is.

They have a massive Christmas themed party planned before everyone heads home for the holidays because “of course we’re going to have a Christmas party, Jesus, Enjolras, get your head out of your ass.” Enjolras then subjects himself to being frowned at every time Cosette and Courfeyrac see him for the next week. And it’s not really that he dislikes Christmas. It’s just that his friends are all mildly insane, as can be seen by the mass influx of Christmas cards they send out.

The one from Musichetta, Joly, and Bossuet is of their cat, who looks far less than pleased, with an elf hat on and tangled up in lights. “You actually dressed up your cat,” Bahorel questions.

“Well, Musichetta did,” Joly grumbles.

“And you took pictures,” Bahorel continues.

“Again, that was Musichetta,” Bossuet says.

Shaking his head, Feuilly hands the picture back. “She might have done it, but that is a direct reflection on you,” he says, clapping them each on the shoulder.

Cosette, Grantaire, Éponine, and Courfeyrac’s are worse. They didn’t settle on just one picture. They actually took over a shopping center photo hut for over an hour and used every prop available. They’re also dressed in the most atrocious Christmas sweaters that any of them have ever seen. Enjolras doesn’t know whether to be more offended by the sequins, glitter, or feather trims more. He can only image how hellish it would be to stand around Cosette in her sweater that seems to have no less than fifty jingle bells sewn on.

And of course, they use one of the pictures—the one where Santa is off screen and offering them a platter of cookies and they all look terrified—as the invitations to the party. Enjolras sort of wants to light it on fire when he sees it taped to his apartment door. “ _Come and celebrate with us. Grab Christmas by the balls because there’s just no fucking time to work. Hosted by Enjolras.”_  And there’s a map to his apartment on the back.

Well, at least they gave him a warning this time.

The day of the party is the last day of finals. Everyone is super exhausted but also deliriously happy. Of course, that could be the lack of sleep and overabundance of coffee speaking. Really, they could all use a good six hour nap, but Musichetta and Cosette start pouting, and soon enough everyone is gathered at the Musain to pre-party and have their own private celebration before the big one later on. It’s poinsettias all around and toasts for making it through finals alive.

When it’s time to finish up the decorations and setting out of food and drinks, they head out into the cold. “If you’re riding, make your claims,” Bahorel bellows, brandishing a sled. He drops it into the snow, and the girls all jump on it. Jehan claims another, holding out the reins for Courfeyrac and Grantaire. Giggling madly, Joly takes the last one, and Bossuet stands ready to pull.

Enjolras rolls his eyes, and Combeferre chuckles. “This whole thing was your fault,” he says and laughs when Enjolras grumbles darkly under his breath.

It’s a winter tradition that had started up the previous year when Enjolras had fractured his ankle. He hadn’t been able to walk without crutches, and he also hadn’t been able to walk with them, especially not on the wet and icy sidewalks. Eventually they had settled on the method of just putting him on a sled and letting Bahorel tow him around. It was completely undignified, and Enjolras will never in his life admit that sometimes it was actually a bit fun.

But it had started up a thing, and really, it’s much safer to drag the drunks home on a sled than trying to stumble around through the snow.

The party itself, of course, is a mess. Courfeyrac can’t decide between wanting to dance and standing near an outlet because he’s sewn a set of Christmas lights onto his pants. The girls have ornaments from Enjolras’s little tree that Combeferre and Courfeyrac had insisted he needed hanging from their ears. Feuilly has littered the place with origami made from wrapping paper, and Jehan has glittery ribbons in his hair to match the puff paint monstrosity of a 80s sweater he’s wearing. Bahorel is not so slowly making a mimosa fort out of all the empty orange juice cartons and champagne bottles.

By the end of the night, Enjolras is almost drunk, and they’ve wrapped Grantaire up like a present and left him under the tree. Enjolras stays up only long enough to see out the guests. He knows there’s no way in hell that the Amis are leaving, and indeed, by the time he’s locked the door behind him, they’ve all pretty much dropped like flies.

Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet have taken over the couch and a significant number of the blankets. Jehan is draped over both Montparnasse and Courfeyrac on the loveseat. Éponine is using Grantaire as a pillow, and that just can’t be comfortable or in any way conducive to sleep, not with the way the paper crinkles at Grantaire’s every breath. Bahorel is sprawled out on top of the table, and Feuilly is pushing chairs out of the way to make room for a cushion under it. He slaps at Bahorel’s arm before ducking under. “If you crush me, I’ll haunt you forever and make your iPod play dirty hipster music while you work out.”  

Combeferre finishes stuffing the leftover Jell-O shots into the refrigerator and pushes Enjolras back towards his room. “Let’s hurry up and stake a claim on your room. I’m pretty sure I heard Pontmercy planning to steal it for himself and Cosette earlier.”

“I will choke him with a tricolor if they’ve had sex in my bed,” Enjolras threatens, and Combeferre just hums.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will come a day when I'm going to write real and serious and thoughtful fics involving les amis that don't butcher their characterization but it is not this day

“I’m just saying, when they start running, fuck that. It’s over,” Feuilly insists.

“You realize that there have been countless movies lately where zombies are running and not doing that slow crawl thing, right,” Marius comments.

“Yeah,” Feuilly says, eyes going a bit crazy. “And I repeat: fuck that. It’s over.”

“Your terror over the zombie menace is really getting out of hand, man,” Éponine says. “I still don’t understand why you made me go with you to see _I Am Legend_.”

“I need to be prepared,” Feuilly insists.

Deadpanned, Éponine says, “You spent the entire movie mostly in my lap and clinging to my arm so tightly that I had bruises. You barely looked at the screen because your face was in my chest. Thanks again for that, by the way. And you screamed—I would say like a five year old, except five year olds aren't even that big of wimps—every single time the zombie popped up on the screen.”

“It popped, Éponine!”

“I told you every time it was about to. The music and the pacing made it so obvious. The only reason we didn’t get thrown out of the theater was because everyone was having such a great time laughing at you,” she says.

“You’re not a nice person,” he sulks.

“I’m just saying,” Éponine shrugs. “I mean, zombies aren’t real. The least you could do is be scared over some real shit, like psychotic clowns or something.”

“Hey, some of the theories involve viruses,” Feuilly retorts. “A virus could totally do some crazy mutated shit.”

“Not really,” Combeferre says, not looking up from his book.

“No one asked you, nerd,” Feuilly hollers.

“So you don’t have a contingency plan,” Éponine asks. “You’re just of the fuck that mindset? It’s happening, nothing to be done, so I’ll just let myself get eaten?”

Feuilly scoffs. “Shit no, I don’t want to get eaten. I’d try to stay alive for as long as I could, but always keep one spare bullet.” Then he mimes shooting himself in the head.

“This conversation is stimulating,” Enjolras says dryly to Combeferre, who just shrugs and reaches under his book for the bowl of chips.

Joly follows Bossuet out of the kitchen, his hands up and ready to steady the tray of drinks that Bossuet is carrying out for everyone. Cosette plucks away a cup and says, “If the zombie apocalypse goes down, I’m with Bahorel.”

Bahorel’s laughter is booming, and Courfeyrac admits, “Not the worst plan out there, and no offense, buddy, but I’d hunt down an army base or something.”

“Cruise ship,” Bossuet says.

“What?”

“Get a cruise ship, stock it to max capacity, and get out on the ocean,” Bossuet explains. “Zombies don’t swim, so it’s fool proof.”

“Yeah, well, with your luck there’d be one hiding out in the lower levels,” Courfeyrac says.

Bossuet chuckles. “Someone with better luck than me can do the final sweep through.”

Feuilly, his eyes wide as saucers and face a little pale, whispers, “Dear God, I didn’t even think about them swimming.” Bahorel reaches over and pats his back.

“That cruise ship idea is terrible though, sweetie,” Musichetta says. She kisses his cheek and continues, “You’re thinking outside the box, but it’s not good to put yourself in a place where there’s no escape. I mean, you’ve all watched horror movies, right? How many times have you screamed at the characters for locking themselves in a room with only one exit?”

“Point,” Joly agrees.

“Never go through any kind of apocalypse without at least three backup plans,” Musichetta advises.

“I’d want, like, Richie Rich’s house,” Grantaire says in a far off tone. The others turn to stare at him. “You all remember that movie. He had all those gadgets and that catapult thing. That’s what I want. Maybe a Scooby Doo mystery mansion. I could hide in the walls and pull all sorts of trap doors on the zombies that wander in. They start out in the foyer and then, _bam_ , swamp two miles away.”

“It’s kind of weirdly demented that that's how you'd want to handle the hordes of the undead,” Cosette says.

Grantaire shrugs. “It’s fucking zombies that are looking to eat your intestines. Have some fun with it before you die.”

Feuilly still looks terrified. “What if they swim out of the swamp,” he mutters. “Dear God, they’re unstoppable.”

“I think we broke him,” Bahorel comments, waving a hand in front of Feuilly’s face. He doesn’t respond to it.

They turn on _The Walking Dead_ that night. Feuilly watches the entire thing from behind Bahorel’s back like some kind of creepy koala. Or maybe a sloth, because he’s not really moving. It’s all most okay until a scene where they look down into a well to find a zombie floating around.

“JESUS FUCK BALLS,” Feuilly screams, and Bahorel cringes at the too loud noise right in his ear but manages to not reach back and punch Feuilly in the face. “This is the end! They’re fucking swimming! Sweet Satan on ice skates! Barricade the doors!”

Bahorel and Grantaire tackle him as he leaps up and actually starts pulling the coffee table towards the door of the apartment.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cain, this one is all your fault. But then again, so many of these ideas are.

It ends up being a mess, but really, that tends to be the case any time more than two of them are gathered in a single location. Cosette, Éponine, Grantaire and Courfeyrac all get out of their last class at the same time, but if you question it, they swear up and down that they did not coordinate schedules and beg professors to switch things around.

_They so did._

So while everyone else is finishing up their 3:30-5:00 lectures, the four have already made it to the bar. Grantaire is pleased to say that he’s not the drunkest person in the room for once, and he’d been day drinking. Courfeyrac’s workload has been nothing short of monstrous all week. They’ve all been suffering from his texts and late night calls, and Marius just abandoned all pretenses and packed a bag to stay with Cosette on Wednesday. He’d walked into the bar and demanded a Long Island, which he’d drank in one large gulp, and then another and so on in that fashion.

By now he’s moved onto fruity concoctions, and they’re all watching him warily, because fruity cocktails do one of two things for Courfeyrac. He either gets really horny or really weepy.

As it turns out, he goes with the weeping route. He comes back from the bathroom—lamenting something about catheters—and he plops back down in his stool with wide, wet eyes. He turns the expression up at them, and they all wince. Courfeyrac has hands down the best puppy dog face any of them have ever seen. Cosette is already making noises about it.

“I’m getting fat,” Courfeyrac wails dramatically. Several heads swivel in their direction, and Éponine hits her fist on Grantaire’s leg in an attempt to keep them both from laughing.

Infinitely more patient, Cosette says, “Oh, honey, you’re not fat.”

“No, look,” Courfeyrac says, stumbling from the chair and lifting his shirt up to his nose. “Look!”

“What,” Grantaire asks. “So you don’t have washboard abs? You’ve never had washboard abs. I’m very aware of the things that your abs have had going on, and washboard is not one of those things.”

“But look,” Courfeyrac insists. The other three exchange confused glances. “There’s a roll,” he wails, grabbing a barely noticeable bit of pudge on his belly.

“Courfeyrac,” Cosette says soothingly. “That’s nothing. That’s not even a freshman fifteen.”

“It’s probably all those cookies you eat,” Grantaire suggests.

Courfeyrac freezes up for all of three seconds, his eyes wide. Then he slumps and actually begins crying. Éponine turns a burning gaze back at Grantaire, who just sits there looking extremely alarmed, because those are not crocodile tears. Courfeyrac’s face is actually turning red as he blubbers.

“Look what you did,” both girls cry, Éponine continuing to glare while Cosette scoops Courfeyrac into her arms.

“It is the cookies,” he cries. “It’s the cookies. I eat them all the time. The cookies are making me fat.”

“You aren’t fat, sweetie, really,” Cosette says. “You’re just stressed right now, and you’re finally letting it all out. It’s okay, just cry your little eyes out all you need to.”

“But does he really have to,” Grantaire asks. “Because people are staring at us.”

“Please,” Éponine scoffs. “Since when has that concerned you?”

“When I’m not the drunkest one in the room,” he answers smoothly.

Cosette is still petting Courfeyrac’s hair. “You’re okay,” she says. “Maybe I’ll make you some—oh wait. Oh, I can—no. But you love my—not that either.” She makes a distressed noise in the back of her throat. Although she likes cooking simply for the sake of it, Cosette is very much a stress baker. When something has her upset, she bakes, and when she bakes, Courfeyrac is usually the one to eat the results. But he’s upset about what his endless eating of her cooking has built up to, and his being upset just makes Cosette stressed. It’s a vicious cycle.

“Courfeyrac,” Éponine says, “really, you’re being ridiculous. You had a stressful week, and you over-ate a bunch of comfort food. You’re young and also a guy. Gavroche is coming up next weekend. You just take him to the park or something, run yourselves wild, and it’ll all be worked off.”

“That’s still a week away,” he bemoans.

“So until then, just be a little more conscious of what you’re eating. Don’t order your usual chili fries later,” she says, struggling to stay calm and patient. It’s not that she doesn’t care that Courfeyrac is upset; it’s more that she doesn’t know what to do with overly emotional and public displays. Grantaire hides his grin behind the neck of his beer bottle.

 Courfeyrac sniffles but nods, and Cosette continues stroking his hair until they place their food orders. The others will be arriving soon, and everything should be coming out just about as they show up. Instead of his usual, Courfeyrac ordered some sort of appetizer plate, and when it comes out, it’s a massive cheese and cracker platter, which he proceeds to demolish.

And finally, Éponine can’t take it. “Really,” she snaps. “Really? You were just sitting there crying over the fact that you’ve put on a couple of pounds. You were just crying, actually sobbing in Cosette’s arms, about how you don’t like that hardly noticeable extra poundage you put on, and now you’re sitting here eating an entire cheese platter? Are you kidding me?”

Courfeyrac is doing a pretty good impression of Puss in Boots from _Shrek_ , Cosette’s eyes are wide and her nostrils flaring, and Grantaire just kicks back in the chair and watches the entire thing unfold.

“Cheese is not a health food, Courfeyrac,” she keeps ranting. “There’s nothing wrong with little bits and pieces, but not an entire goddamned platter of the stuff. If you’re going to eat an entire platter of cheese and then sit there and wonder why you gained a couple of pounds, you don’t get to cry on people in public. Oh my God, what is wrong with you?”

It’s about this point that Grantaire can’t stop himself from laughing, because the others have all shown up and are crowded behind Enjolras, all watching over his shoulders with shocked expressions as Éponine wrestles the plate out from Courfeyrac’s grasp and storms over to throw it in the trash can. This inspires Courfeyrac to start his wailing again, and to be heard over him, Cosette has to yell at Éponine that she didn’t need to react like that and that she knows he’s sensitive.

“He’s not sensitive,” Éponine yells back. “He’s drunk on daiquiris!”

Grantaire actually topples back out of his chair when Enjolras, who has finally made it inside and over to them, drops his face into his hand exasperatedly and sighs, “How have we not been banned from this place yet?”


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly more serious to make up for that last chapter.

Finals are over, thank Christ. They’ve all made it through, and they’ve all passed, and the latest of Enjolras’s protesting rallies went off as smoothly as possible—no one was arrested and no one got into a fight—and so it’s the perfect time to celebrate.

They’re all at Courfeyrac and Marius’s apartment, because between them they’ve got the most space. The place is fairly packed with more than just their usual group. Students and volunteers from the rally are there, and they’re all buzzing with their job well done. Bahorel and Feuilly have filled some huge bucket up with a concoction that they refuse to give up the recipe to. It’s pink and sweet and far too drinkable, as can be seen by the fact that Éponine is singing on the table. Marius tries to get her down but is eventually persuaded to join her.

Enjolras is in the kitchenette, standing guard over the vegan spring rolls. Last time they had a party like this, all of them were eaten before he managed to get a hold of one. Combeferre and Bossuet are still begging forgiveness on that one.

There’s music blaring from some speakers, and Cosette had started everyone dancing by grabbing Grantaire and pulling him to the cleared out space in the living room. It’s not as hot or packed as a club, but they’re all a sweating mess soon enough, bodies pressed up against each other on all sides.

Grantaire had been at the rally. He hadn’t held any signs or joined any chants. He’d just been there as moral support for his friends, and also as backup in case a fight broke out, as often happened. The thing about when the rallies go really, really well, it’s one of Grantaire’s favorite times to watch Enjolras. He has all of that burning passion but none of that angry frustration. He’s just ablaze with his faith and convictions and pride that people are hearing him, understanding and joining in.

He’s more than beautiful in moments like those, more than worthy of the nickname Apollo. Grantaire loves watching him like that but also hates it. It’s when the fact that Enjolras is miles out of his reach is the most obvious. And it’s not like that’s a glaring wakeup call or anything. Grantaire has been aware from the very beginning that he has no shot. They’re far too different, and even Grantaire wouldn’t want to date himself, so there’s that.

Of course, knowing that he’s got no chance doesn’t stop the longing. It doesn’t stop the way that he’s completely entranced by everything that is Enjolras. He’s buzzing, feels too worked up, and later when he’s sitting on the couch and Courfeyrac drops down by him, a hand falling on his knee, that’s about all the motivation Grantaire needs.

They both jump at each other, hands everywhere. Courfeyrac all but attacks Grantaire’s neck, biting, sucking, and kissing, and Jesus, he’s in one of those moods. Grantaire’s neck is going to look like he’s the victim of domestic abuse tomorrow. His loud moan as Courfeyrac grabs his ass and grinds their hips together is drowned out by the music.

Even as he knows he shouldn’t, knows he should just focus on the things—the awesome things—that Courfeyrac is doing with his tongue, Grantaire can’t help but seek out Enjolras. The other is still in the kitchen, having never been one for the kind of dancing going on in the living room. Or really any dancing at all. He’s talking with Combeferre, actually smiling and laughing and only slightly seriously holding the tray of spring rolls from his best friend’s reach.

He’s gorgeous like that, smile bright as the sun, with the slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes. It’s a look that’s only been directed at Grantaire a small handful of times—because even though they are most definitely friends, and good ones, he’s still constantly a bit of a disappointment to Enjolras, and Enjolras doesn’t throw around fake smiles—but one that he sees constantly in dreams and fantasies.

His heart jumps when Enjolras turns and catches him staring. It’s sort of an awkward moment, because Grantaire can’t tear his eyes away, and Enjolras is just watching them, and there’s something going on with his expression that Grantaire can’t really make out. It’s half hidden, and Grantaire isn’t really working on full observational capacity right now.

And then Courfeyrac’s hand reaches down to palm at his dick and holy shit. “So, bed, right,” he huffs in Grantaire’s ear, and he can’t really answer with words so much, so he jumps up and grabs Courfeyrac’s hand, dragging him back to his bedroom. He chances one last look over his shoulder. Enjolras is still watching them.

They stumble back onto the bed, ripping away each other’s clothes. Lips and tongues run all over sweat slicked skin, and Grantaire growls out, “Feel free to not take your sweet ass time today.” Courfeyrac lets out a breathy, shuddering laugh that’s accented by a long drag of his hips, and he fumbles for the lube and condoms in the bedside table. He gets Grantaire open as fast as he can without it being too much, and he thrusts in.

It’s hard and fast and messy, and when they come, it’s as a trembling heap of tangled limbs. Grantaire feels like he can barely lift his arm, but he manages to slide his hand through Courfeyrac’s curls and press a kiss to his forehead.

Courfeyrac pulls out and reaches for the wipes. “Who were you thinking about,” he asks.

Grantaire jerks. “What,” he asks.

Courfeyrac looks down at him with an arched brow. “Remember how I’m like the sex Sherlock Holmes?” Grantaire rolls his eyes. Courfeyrac laughs. “Anyway, just something I’ve noticed. When we fuck, if it’s just about us wanting to get off, afterwards, you kiss me, like really dirty, on the mouth. But if you’re thinking about someone else, you kiss my forehead.”

Grantaire blinks at him. He hadn’t even realized. “I—I do that?”

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac says with a shrug. “So, who was it,” he asks, but there’s something gentle and almost pitying in his tone that says he knows, even though they have never talked about it. Grantaire sighs. He’s never talked about it with anyone except Éponine, but he’s pretty sure that everyone except the one person he wants to know is in on this little not-so-much secret.

“Thought so,” Courfeyrac says a moment later when Grantaire doesn’t answer. He tosses the wipes and condom into the trash and pulls Grantaire into his arms. He sighs. “Man, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault that he’s emotionally oblivious and that I’m pretty much pathetic about all this,” Grantaire mumbles into his shoulder. “It fucking sucks though. I mean, he doesn’t even notice. Like, it would suck if he said no thanks, but at least then he’d fucking be aware that I existed.”

Courfeyrac’s hand trails lightly through his hair. “He knows you exist, R, and I’m pretty sure that, objectively anyway, he thinks you’re attractive, like anyone else would, but I think he just doesn’t really have the drive to do anything about it. Sorry, I know that’s not really helpful. I’m not the best with the words part of comforting, but Cosette says I give the best hugs.”

Grantaire laughs a bit wetly. “Yeah, you do,” he agrees, and Courfeyrac squeezes him tightly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“Have you ever considered just telling him,” Courfeyrac asks. “I mean, not saying anything kind of bit Ep on the ass.”

“Already know the answer to that one,” he says bitterly. “Not much point.” Courfeyrac makes a little hum of disapproval, but he doesn’t try to persuade him.

They don’t head back out into the party. Grantaire doesn’t have it in him anymore, and Courfeyrac stays too because his end plans for the day were to “get naked in bed with someone, and hey, look, I accomplished that. So, you know, winning.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next will be during the summer between les ami's junior and senior years, which means a slow and steady working towards the end. and also the angst.

Combeferre nearly always has a messenger bag strapped across his chest. It hangs low on his hip and bumps around when he walks. During midterms and finals, he usually ends up with bruises that make his jeans mildly uncomfortable. He brings it with him everywhere, to classes, to the library, to the bar, to restaurants, all of their adventures out on the town, and even just sitting around various apartments.

Combeferre’s messenger bag is the stuff of legends within the group. It’s a very unassuming bag, the brown leather soft and well worn. Courfeyrac has actually used it as a pillow before, and he can attest to its general comfort. But the reason why the bag brings about any sort of notice is that Combeferre seems to have everything in the world inside of it.

They can be sitting at the bar, and someone will look at their phone and lament that it’s almost out of power. Combeferre doesn’t even look up. He just reaches down into his bag and hands over a charger. The only time he’s ever faltered with that had been one time Musichetta had needed it. He’d handed the charger over, and, with a mixture of disappointment and glee, she’d said, “I just got the new iPhone this morning.” (“You’ve already used up all the battery,” Bahorel had asked, and she’d snapped back, “It’s a new toy, okay? I had to play with it.”) Combeferre, in a fluid motion, had replaced the charger back in his bag and pulled out a different one with the new cord. Musichetta had taken it with an expression that spoke of great awe and reverence.

He seems to have everything in that bag. Tide To-Go pens, gum, a spare t-shirt, glue, headphones, and USB cards. Band-aids and antiseptic for when Bahorel gets in fights. Vitamin C packets for when Joly is positive he’s coming down with a cold. An extra hat for when it’s raining or cold and Bossuet is unprepared. Cigarettes for Feuilly and a spare flask for Grantaire. Markers and little notepads for Jehan, condoms for Courfeyrac, and vegan protein bars for Enjolras.

Of course, a lot of the things he keeps in the bag, it’s easy to understand why they’d be there. After all, Combeferre often seems to know his friends better than they know themselves, and he’s very good at taking care of all of them in subtle ways. It makes sense that he would have a supply on hand of things that they would need.

It’s when he starts pulling out things that are weirdly specific to the situation that they start questioning it.

Like that one time they had gotten into a long discussion—read: argument—over the actual wording over a line in _The Godfather_. Bahorel had stood up, fist clenched and ready to start swinging, when Combeferre had calmly extracted both his laptop and a copy of the movie and pushed them across the table. Or that time he had three different bottles of glitter when Jehan insisted upon making the flyers for their Pride rally more fabulous. And then there was that one time Cosette had been waxing nostalgia about Pokémon, and Combeferre had handed her a Game Boy Color and said she was welcome to play his file or create a new one.

Marius is becoming paranoid about the whole thing. He stares wide eyed at the bag, and Éponine has caught him crossing himself when Combeferre emerges with some impossible item. So, of course, she has fun with it.

“It’s probably black magic,” she says, watching as Grantaire jams his thumbs over the buttons of the game controller with muttered grunts of, “Come on. _Come on_ , you little bitch.”

From the corner of her eye, Éponine sees the distressed look settle over Marius’s face. “I mean, if there would be one person in this world who could actually figure out black magic and all that jazz, it would be Combeferre.”

“Does it have to be black magic,” Courfeyrac asks, taking mild pity on Marius. “Why can’t it just be like Mary Poppins’s bag or something?”

“If Mary Poppins’s bag was on crack,” Grantaire says. “Aw, you fucker, did I tell you that you could jump off that cliff?”

“If,” Cosette laughs. “What movie were you watching? Although, granted, she only took personal items out of there to decorate her room. She didn’t just magically procure any vice that someone would ever need at the drop of a hat.”

“I’m just really curious about how he fits it all in there,” Courfeyrac says. “I mean, okay, he’s got all these things. That’s fine. Just, how do they fit around the laptop and the books?”

“Black magic,” Éponine says darkly, leering at Marius. He whimpers and scoots closer to Cosette, who, filing her nails, pays him no mind.

“I’d like to get my hands on it,” Cosette says. “For science. But he never lets anyone get close to it.”

“I’ve slept on it,” Courfeyrac reminds her.

“Yes,” she says, “but it was still attached to him at the time. He never leaves it unguarded. That’s suspicious, and I want to know what kind of Time Lord technology he’s been hoarding.”

“Black timey wimey space magic,” Éponine whispers in Marius’s ear. He jumps so violently that he falls off the couch and onto Grantaire, who screams that he only had one chance to get that fucking heart piece, you piece of shit, and now it’s ruined.

They get the opportunity to snatch the thing a couple of weeks later. They’re all at the bar, and Combeferre gets up to go to the restroom. With wide, greedy eyes, Cosette and Courfeyrac scramble across the table, knocking into drinks and plates. “What the hell are you doing,” Bahorel thunders.

“Shut up, sasquatch,” Cosette hisses, holding the bag reverently in her hands.

“Oh, that’s—that’s a bad idea,” Joly whimpers, trying to simultaneously disappear into both Bossuet’s and Musichetta’s sides. On Bossuet’s other side, Marius looks ready to cry.

“What exactly are you doing,” Musichetta asks, leaning over the table for a better view. Grantaire and Éponine hover over Cosette and Courfeyrac’s shoulders.

“Scientific research,” Cosette answers.

Enjolras arches a brow. “It’s rude to dig through someone else’s things,” he says.

“This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, struggling with the latches. “This will literally never happen again. We need to take advantage. And if I can learn his organizational system and spatial management skills, my closet will be so much more manageable.”

Enjolras just hums, and Marius looks around wildly, tugging at the collar of his sweater. Feuilly attempts to look bored, but it’s discredited by the way he cranes his neck to see around Bahorel. “Are you sure it’s the best idea, though,” he asks. “I mean, what if it’s like the Holy Grail in there and your faces melt off?” Marius lets out a squeal of terror and slaps his hands over his eyes. 

“Got it,” Courfeyrac cries, and everyone crowds in closer. One of Marius’s eyes is peeking out from behind his fingers. Together, Cosette and Courfeyrac pull back the bag’s cover and look inside.

It’s all pretty standard stuff. There’s his laptop and wallet, a textbook for his political theories class, a notebook, a few pens, and a phone charger. In the side pockets, there’s an energy bar, a graphing calculator, and a box of band-aids and a vitamin c packet held together with one of Jehan’s ribbons.

“This,” Cosette says, “is severely disappointing.”

“Where’s all the magic stuff,” Courfeyrac asks, digging his hands deeper into the bag. He shoves his face into the opening as if that will provide him with a better view.

“I keep the bunny in my other bag,” a voice says behind them. Marius screams, Grantaire leaps into Éponine’s arms, and Cosette and Courfeyrac get tangled in the bag’s strap as they try to shove it at Bahorel and Feuilly, who swat at it with flailing arms.

Everyone turns to see Combeferre standing there, his hands in his back pockets, and that weird little half smile on his face that no one—besides Enjolras—can ever tell if he’s irritated or amused or besotted or ready to rip their heads clean off their shoulders.

They blink up at him, expressions flittering back and forth between sheepish and guilty. Combeferre merely stands there, staring at them. It takes a full minute and a half before Courfeyrac cracks and flings himself out of the booth and wraps his arms around Combeferre’s legs. “I’m sorry, okay,” he wails. “I’m sorry, just please stop looking at me like that. I won’t do it again. I just wanted to reorganize my bow ties.”

He sniffles into Combeferre’s thigh until his friend reaches down and ruffles his curls. Courfeyrac squeezes tighter, which almost throws Combeferre off balance. When they reclaim their seats, Cosette hands the bag back with a murmured apology. “I take it you’re done being concerned about my bag,” he says, tucking it into his side. “It’s really nothing special.” Cosette’s sigh is a little disappointed, but she nods.

It’s not much longer after that when Enjolras checks his watch and slides from his seat. “Class,” he says to excuse himself.

“Running a bit late,” Combeferre says, checking his own watch.

Enjolras shrugs, adjusting his own bag. Joly looks up and frets, “You’re missing lunch. Go grab a croissant before you leave.”

“No time,” Enjolras answers.

“Here, take this at least,” Combeferre says, and he pulls an apple out of his bag.

“That,” Courfeyrac screeches, pointing wildly, “was not there five minutes ago!”

“Voodoo,” Éponine cries. “Juju! Bad, bad juju!” She makes an X with her fingers and holds them out to ward off the magic of Combeferre’s bag. Joly leans across Bossuet to fan at Marius, who looks ready to faint. Enjolras and Combeferre just exchange polite smiles, and Enjolras walks out of the café taking a crunching bite from the apple. 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the last of junior year. I'll go ahead and apologize ahead of time. I don't have too much of senior year written, so updates may be a bit slower coming.

The monthly nights out at a local swing dance club are Grantaire’s fault, the same as how there’s now a karaoke machine at the bar. Of course, the karaoke had started because of Grantaire drunkenly singing _Don’t Rain On My Parade_ at Enjolras, only it had turned out that he has a magnificent voice.

It’s not Grantaire that drags them out that night. It’s Cosette. And they aren’t at the club that eventually becomes the one they use for non-grinding style dancing. It’s just a place a little different from the Musain, with a large space cleared for a dance floor. The clientele is a bit older than the places they usually frequent, but Cosette has read reviews that impressed her. Also, there’s a stripper pole in the women’s bathroom that she and the other girls had just had to see. They come back with photographic evidence that Musichetta has some really fantastic core strength.

It’s a nice place, all in all. There’s twinkle lights set up on the walls, plenty of tables and chairs, and the wait staff is prompt and the music not objectionable. Enjolras says that he wouldn’t mind this place being added to their rotation list, and that about settles it.

They don’t have any fair-trade coffee, and he’s not in the mood to drink, so Enjolras just orders a tea. Grantaire and Bahorel both tease him, saying he needs to just start carrying a flask with vegan approved liquor choices, because apparently his life choices are getting out of hand.

A certain song comes on, and Cosette brightens. She tries to draw Marius out to the dance floor, but he turns red and promises her that it’s a disaster waiting to happen. Cosette tries to make her eyes as large as possible, an almost foolproof technique, but Marius manages to withstand it. He’s half a mess, trying to stay rooted in the chair against Cosette pulling on his arm. “I’ll just step on your feet,” he cries. “Really, I’m terrible. You’ve seen me try to dance before. You know it’ll end horribly.”

“Please, Marius,” she says, and she looks like she’s actually getting upset now.

Suddenly, Grantaire is on his feet, holding out his hand for her. “I’ll dance with you,” he offers. Marius’s expression almost makes Enjolras crack a smile. He’s half relieved and half concerned that Grantaire might actually do more damage to Cosette than he would. Cosette gives Grantaire an indulgent smile. She obviously doesn’t think he’s going to be much better, but she takes his hand and heads out with him. The others all lean to get a better view of the dance floor, wondering how long it’ll take before Grantaire sends them both tumbling.

They’re proven astoundingly wrong almost immediately. Grantaire spins Cosette around in a complicated series of moves, and as she pushes out from him, her expression goes from shocked surprise to utter delight. Her skirt flies around her knees, and the other couples on the dance floor soon clear space for them.

It’s obvious that they both know what they’re doing. The moves are too complicated and well timed for anything else. They spin and dip and twist, and at one point Grantaire even flips Cosette over his back. They’re both laughing loud enough to be heard over the music, and when the song ends, the entire bar breaks out into applause.

They come back to the table with pink cheeks and slightly out of breath. “That was amazing,” Éponine cries. "You've been holding out on us."

“Where the hell did you learn to dance like that,” Courfeyrac asks.

“Cotillions,” Grantaire says, making a face and running a hand through his hair.

Although Marius still insists that he can’t dance, Éponine and Courfeyrac end up on the dance floor with Cosette and Grantaire. Cosette is actually teaching Éponine, the two standing side by side and Éponine clumsily trying to mimic Cosette’s feet. Grantaire and Courfeyrac are just dancing, Grantaire spinning Courfeyrac around with just as much grace, if a little less flare, as he had with Cosette. Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet are a stumbling mess as they all try to dance together. They mostly just bump into each other, laugh, and then try again.

Enjolras remains in his seat, watching all of his friends, although his eyes are almost solely focused on Grantaire. The unexpected talent in dancing is a surprise, a pleasant one. Enjolras is always glad to see Grantaire’s talents, little or big things that he’s good at. It takes so much for the things to actually come out, and Enjolras wonders not for the first time why Grantaire is so insistent on presenting himself to the world as nothing more than a cynical drunk. Enjolras had known from early on in their acquaintanceship that Grantaire was studying art, but it had taken until only a few months previously for Enjolras to ever see any of Grantaire’s work, and it had been by accident.

Enjolras doesn’t think that people should become full of themselves, but he does believe that people should be proud of their accomplishments and of the ways that they can better the world. Grantaire, Enjolras knows, isn’t about to use his art to send a message, but everything that he’s made that Enjolras has been allowed to see is beautiful, and he sees no reason why Grantaire shouldn’t be proud to share that beauty. And, of course, swing dancing with friends on a weekend night out certainly isn’t going to change the world, but Enjolras is all for anything that Grantaire does that keeps him out of a bottle.

He’s actually enchanting to watch. Courfeyrac certainly is capable of grace when he dances, but it’s mostly grinding around at clubs, nothing like this. But Grantaire is phenomenal, and he makes it so that all of Courfeyrac’s mistakes seem part of what they’re doing. He’s seamless with the way he transitions them into something new and fluid. Enjolras doubts he would have noticed if he hadn’t been staring so intently.

And it’s when he realizes that he is indeed staring intently that he notices Combeferre watching him. He glances over, and Combeferre doesn’t look away. He’s got a small smile stretching his lips behind the neck of his beer bottle. It’s a look that Enjolras knows well. It means that Combeferre knows exactly what Enjolras is thinking, perhaps even more clearly than Enjolras himself. Enjolras arches a brow, but Combeferre doesn’t say anything, just smiles a little wider and turns his attention back to the conversation between Bahorel and Feuilly.

Enjolras blinks after him for a moment, but he can’t keep his gaze from Grantaire for very long. He’s switched out Courfeyrac for Éponine, and she’s laughing as he gives her the same treatment he had to Courfeyrac, making her clumsiness and unsure footing something entirely different.

There’s a strange sensation in the pit of Enjolras’s stomach, and the closest he’s ever felt to it before was that night a few weeks back, after finals and that rally, when he’d watched Grantaire drag Courfeyrac back into the other’s bedroom and they hadn’t emerged for the rest of the night. Enjolras knows exactly what they were doing in there, as they’ve never made any secrets of their off and on again affair. But he doesn’t understand why seeing them would stir up anything within him. After all, he’s seen worse from the others. It’s a basic occupational hazard of being friends with Courfeyrac, and he’s seen Jehan with his hands down Montparnasse’s pants and almost got a full view of Marius and Cosette once when they’d failed to lock his apartment door.

He doesn’t want to say it’s something like jealousy, because that makes no sense. Enjolras doesn’t really have much in the way of desire for such physical affections. He knows his friends think he’s a virgin, but he’s been with people, men and women, and while it’s not like sex disgusts him—far from it—he just doesn’t particularly find it necessary. Sure, he’d enjoyed it, but it’s a distraction from all the things he would rather put his attentions and efforts towards.

Whatever this feeling is, it’s to do with Grantaire. Nothing works him up like Grantaire manages to do. Enjolras can sit and listen to the most ignorant drivel without losing his temper, but a few choice jabs from the other man, and he’s on his feet and screaming. And the damnedest part of it, he doesn’t actually want Grantaire to stop. Sure, the over drinking, Enjolras would love for Grantaire to stop with that, but the arguing, it’s exhilarating in its own way. He wants desperately for Grantaire to find something that he can believe in, something that can drive and focus him, but he secretly hopes that these arguments never stop. Because there just isn’t anything else like a debate with Grantaire, watching as his eyes flash and lips twist up in a crooked smile.

Enjolras tries not to focus on it all too much. Of course, he tries to always make time for his friends if they need it, but he wants his focus mostly on the bigger picture. Because the betterment of the people is more important than any one individual. Or, he thinks, smiling as Grantaire lifts Éponine and spins her with a laugh, it’s supposed to be. 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay in updating, this would have been up last night, but I do not own a dictionary. My house has no less than ten Bibles, but not a single dictionary. That's relevant to this chapter, I swear. Also, this starts off senior year.

It becomes an accidental sort of tradition, as most of their traditions do. It starts way back in their freshman year when, during a few slow meetings, Jehan had noticed a couple of board games stored up above the bar. He’d climbed up to take a few down, easily getting Courfeyrac, Joly, and Bossuet to join him with a few fluttering bats of his long lashes. Eventually everyone else starts playing too, and they buy more games to store up in the back room, and by sophomore year, Tuesdays have been designated Game Nights.

It doesn’t take them long to tarnish the tradition’s innocent beginnings.

It starts with _Monopoly_. Tensions are always running high as the game drags on and people slip further and further into the dregs of poverty. Nine times out of ten, the game ends with someone flipping the board over, and Enjolras and Grantaire always fight about the bank.

So they try to move onto something less stressful. _Scrabble_ is usually pretty decent, and depending on who all is present, they play either seriously or offensively. So no one is really sure if they should blame Courfeyrac—because he’s the one who makes the play—or Enjolras—because they don’t get to play fun words when he’s there—for the incident.

Courfeyrac has just made his play, and drawing the appropriate number of new squares, he sits back to consider his next move. Dark eyes slowly travel over the board, observing spaces and taking mental notes until a once and a life time opportunity makes itself known. The loud screech he emits is perfectly acceptable, and he snaps, “Play, oh my God, just play,” when everyone stops to stare at him.

Anticipation builds as each of his friends take their turns, and he’ll admit that maybe he makes a couple of strange noises when it looks like someone might steal his desired spot. His heart is pounding, and he’s practically vibrating with adrenaline. Finally, Jehan makes a move of “garden.”

Courfeyrac bounces in his seat as he slowly spells out the greatest word of all time.

B. U. There’s already a T. Add another T. S. There’s already an E. And finally, X.

Courfeyrac sits back, fists above his head in triumph, and Feuilly deadpans, “Did you just play buttsex?”

“I win,” Courfeyrac cheers. “I will forever.”

“That’s not how you win,” Enjolras says with an air of already tried patience. To be fair, Grantaire and Bahorel have been doing their best to play swear words all night.

“It’s how you win in the fun version,” Courfeyrac says. “Someone count up my points.”

“He hit a triple and a double,” Cosette says to Joly, who scribbles the numbers down on a pad of paper.

“This is the best,” Courfeyrac cries happily. “I mean, how often? _How often?_ Best move of the night. I can die happy. Even Mr. Francey Pants McGrumperson can’t take this from me.” Enjolras frowns, and Éponine and Grantaire snort into their hands.

“Buttsex isn’t actually in the dictionary,” Combeferre says, holding up the battered old copy he’d pulled from his bag. Courfeyrac turns and looks at him. Combeferre just stares back, motioning to the open page where it goes from buttress to buttstock. Courfeyrac blinks and very suddenly throws himself across the table to tackle Combeferre.

The table jerks violently, and the board and pieces go flying. Enjolras sighs. “Every fucking time.”

It’s not just _Monopoly_ and _Scrabble_. They also have problems with _Operation_. No one wants to play with Joly and Combeferre anymore.

“It’s stupid,” Musichetta pouts. “You haven’t even been through medical school yet. And, baby, you aren’t even aiming for surgery.”

“It doesn’t hurt to have a decent understanding,” Joly says cheerfully, taking less than two minutes to successfully extract all the pieces.

Grantaire takes it upon himself to even the playing field. He swipes a magnet from Marius and Courfeyrac’s refrigerator and does his best to subtly knock it into the game as they go in for new pieces. After doing it to Joly about five times, he sits back with a huff, burrowing into Musichetta and Bossuet’s sides and proceeding to glare at Grantaire and threaten to withhold the good cough syrup come allergy season. It’s a bluff if Grantaire’s ever heard one. Joly lives to fret over his friends when they’re sick.

But now that Joly has been humbled, Grantaire goes to do the same to Combeferre. The only problem is that Combeferre is Combeferre. He is eternally calm. When it had been looking like Joly would lose his temper, he would just lay a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder, instantly calming the other. Combeferre is unmovable. He has to be, as per his responsibilities and niche within the group. He is their guide and their voice of reason, the thing that keeps them from falling apart in a crumbling, disorganized mess.

He’s also very good about maneuvering and being obviously not at fault when Grantaire attempts to sabotage his turn. It’s slow going, but he gets every piece out of the game save for one. Everyone sits up a little bit straighter. Combeferre is going in for the kill. He’s going for the Bread Basket. The tension in the room is thick. They all hold their breaths, waiting in anticipation for Combeferre’s final victory.

_BUZZZZZZ._

The obnoxious buzzer falls silent, and the red nose goes dark. Everyone turns to look at Grantaire, who is sitting there with a pleased and smug grin. Combeferre sits frozen for a couple of long seconds. He blinks, once and then twice. He slowly lowers the tweezers to the tabletop and reaches up to remove his glasses. Those standing the closest to Grantaire immediately scoot to the sides, and Combeferre leaps across the table to tackle him out of his chair. He goes down with a shrill scream, and Enjolras watches as the little white pieces fly through the air and wonders if they’ll ever find them all again.

They can’t play _Apples to Apples_ because Joly and Bossuet can practically read each other’s minds and always win each other’s cards. Enjolras refuses to let them play _Cards Against Humanity_ because the one time they tried, he nearly went off into a seething rage complete with foaming at the mouth at the offensiveness of some of the combinations.

No one wants to play _Connect Four_ because every time someone lands a diagonal four, Marius insists on saying, “Pretty sneaky, sis,” which Bahorel responds to by slapping the game across the room. _Mouse Trap_ is missing half the pieces from the last time Grantaire and Courfeyrac played with Gavroche. Only Enjolras and Combeferre have the patience to play chess, but they usually can’t get more than fifteen minutes into a game before Courfeyrac walks over, flips the board, and announces, “Until it’s Wizard’s Chess, this game is bullshit.”

They get a good laugh from a game Combeferre and Courfeyrac find one weekend when they go with Enjolras to help his parents clean out the storage units that are holding everything from his late grandmother’s house. “ _Masterpiece: The Art Auctioneer Game_ ,” Courfeyrac says, brandishing the box. “This is a real game.”

“Are you shitting me,” Feuilly snorts. “What the fuck?”

“I think it’s like _Clue_ , but for snobs,” Courfeyrac cackles.

“My grandmother wasn’t a snob,” Enjolras says with a slight warning tone.

Combeferre places a hand on his shoulder. “There was another game in that box about visiting wineries,” he says with a placating smile.

“Look at this asshole,” Grantaire sniggers, holding up one of the character cards. “V. Elton Whitehall, Esquire. How is this actually a real thing? Fucking Parker Brothers.”

Of course, they have to play the game, and they lose it at just about every turn over the sheer pretentiousness of the premise. The game itself, of course, is intensely boring, but it earns itself a spot of honor up on the shelf.

They never play _Candy Land_ because it usually dissolves into an _Elf_ quote-along. _Life_ depresses and freaks Marius out. _Yahtzee_ always dissolves into craps, and someone—Enjolras suspects Courfeyrac on principle but Éponine on evidence—switched all the faces on _Guess Who_ into pictures of Beyonce. Jehan and Cosette defaced the _Jenga_ blocks to turn it into a drinking game, and they stopped playing _Pretty Pretty Princess_ after the one time Musichetta ended the game still wearing the black ring. They don’t talk about that night anymore. _Thin Ice_ isn’t allowed because of a marble fight that almost put out Joly’s eye. 

 _Battleship_ also is problematic for them. No one can ever seem to beat Cosette, Bossuet, or Combeferre. It might have gone unnoticed until one day Marius whirls around and hisses, “Bossuet never loses this game.” And they all turn suspicious stares to him, because it's Bossuet and Bossuet does not win games. The only reason he has any prowess with _Apples to Apples_ is because of Joly. For his part, Bossuet just sits there looking like a deer caught in the headlights while Cosette glares at him.

“Ok, fess up,” Bahorel demands. “How are you doing it? Are you straight lying? Are you stacking them? Are you putting them diagonal? I swear to fucking Christ, Pontmercy, you better not say it.”

Marius shuts his opened mouth and slinks to hide behind Courfeyrac.

Cosette turns her glare up to the rest of them defiantly, unmovable until Bossuet catches Joly’s disappointed expression and cracks. “Stacking,” he cries. “I stack them.”

“God dammit, Bossuet,” Cosette snaps. “I thought we had an arrangement.”

“Did you not see his eyes,” Bossuet whines, pointing at Joly.

“You think Marius doesn’t try to give me eyes like that,” Cosette asks. “Do you think I lower myself to be swayed by them? No offense, sweetie,” she adds with a loving smile in Marius’s direction. He briefly pops up from behind Courfeyrac’s shoulder to return the gaze.

“You diagonal, don’t you,” Bahorel asks.

“So what if I do,” Cosette asks, standing to her full, unimpressive height. It’s comical when next to Bahorel, but Cosette is something like their resident Khaleesi, and she’s not going to let even their Khal Drogo intimidate her.

“You’re a bad person,” he answers.

“No, I’m a winner,” Cosette corrects.

It’s a bit of their back and forth for a while before Musichetta thinks to ask Combeferre, “And what’s your method?”

“No method,” Combeferre answers lightly, not looking up from the book he’d extracted from his bag some moments previous. “I’ve simply studied naval strategy and tactics at great length, and it’s pretty easy to apply that knowledge to a simple board game.”

Enjolras is pretty sure that he’s the only one to correctly interpret that statement as “both.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. The art game and the winery game, they are both real. My brother and I found them at our grandmother's place. Christ above her husband was a snob.


	27. Chapter 27

The afternoon that Enjolras and Combeferre return to his apartment after their Political Theories: Revolution and Reaction lecture to find his couches overturned, cushions piled into a wall, and spare sheets pinned strategically to form a giant tent, Enjolras finally comes to the conclusion that he fully regrets giving his friends copies of his key.

Objectively speaking, it’s a rather impressive blanket fort. It covers a vast majority of the living room, including the television and looks to open up directly onto the balcony. There’s a sign pinned to the front, the lettering bold and intricate, that says, “ _Go French or Get Out,_ ” with a little doodle of what seems to be France discoing in the corner. Enjolras isn't really sure what that all means. 

Jehan appears from the kitchen, carrying several boxes of Enjolras’s good snack boxes and fruit rolls. At the sight of them, he lets out a loud squeal and runs for the tent. “He’s back,” Jehan cries, scrambling inside. “Close it up!”

“Did you get the goods,” Joly’s voice asks.

“Right here,” Bossuet says. “Put them with the other supplies." Combeferre and Enjolras exchange glances when they hear what sounds like a refrigerator door opening.

“Should I even bother asking which one of you came up with this idea,” Enjolras asks.

“It sounds like it would be rather redundant,” Éponine calls.

“Care to explain why then,” he asks.

“Sometimes I do things for my own personal entertainment,” Courfeyrac answers. “And a select few who are in on it.”

“Who all is in there,” Combeferre asks.

“All the cool kids,” Jehan says. “If you sign the rules and regulations of Fort Enjolras’s Living Room, you too may enter, after, of course, you swear fealty.”

“To whom,” Combeferre asks.

“The gods of childhood and nostalgia,” Jehan answers. “And since you are just an ignorant passerby, we can allow your lack of themed pajamas to be forgiven this one time.”

“I have some Spider-Man ones you can borrow later,” Joly calls.

With a shrug, Combeferre says, “Sure, why not,” and heads over to find the entrance.

“Seriously,” Enjolras deadpans. “You’re indulging this?”

“For science,” Combeferre says with a smile as he disappears.

A moment later, Courfeyrac sticks his head out. “Come on, Enjolras,” he says, wagging his brows up and down. “You know you want to. You know in the very least you want to see the inside of this magical place.” Enjolras heaves a sigh that would knock a lesser man clean off his feet and crawls in after Courfeyrac.

Inside is perhaps more impressive than out. There are numerous pillows and blankets strewn about to make pallets. There’s also the foam memory pad from someone’s bed— he assumes Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet’s due to its sheer size and the fact that the three of them have claimed it—and a blow up pool float. There’s Bahorel’s mini-fridge and a cardboard box overflowing with junk food. The television has Netflix open, and there’s both an Xbox and a Nintendo 64 hooked up.

Seated with their backs to the balcony, each on a colorful and large throw pillow, are Éponine, Courfeyrac, Grantaire, and Cosette. The four are all wearing their designated robes from Cosette’s collection. Combeferre is settling into the spot near her that Éponine is gesturing to, and Marius is sprawled in such a manner before Cosette that Enjolras’s first thought is of Princess Leia in the slave outfit, which is a thought he will never voice aloud.

“Ah, Enjolras,” Grantaire says with a flourish. “Welcome to the fort.”

“Thrilling,” he says dryly.

“Hey, watch your mouth or you will be exiled,” Cosette warns.

“But can you really exile me from my own living room and my own furniture,” Enjolras says.

“You called no seat backs,” Courfeyrac says.

“I shouldn’t have to with my own belongings,” he argues.

“How bourgeois,” Grantaire drawls, smirking when Enjolras frowns nastily at him. “Now, now, isn’t that what you’re always preaching, share with the masses? Are we not the masses?”

Cosette turns a look at him. “Fuck no, we aren’t the masses,” she says. “We are the Kings and Queens of the Fort. We are the Pevensies, and this is our Narnia. You don’t like that, you can get the fuck out of the wardrobe.”

“Hear, hear,” Courfeyrac says with a toast of his Capris Sun.

“And so we have spoken,” Grantaire says. “But now for the rules. Will the Royal Keeper of the Law be so kind?”

Éponine clears her throat and holds up a legal pad, which Enjolras is fairly certain has also been lifted from his room. “Rule the First: don’t spill shit. We don’t want it to turn into a biohazard in here. Rule the Second: no rough housing. It took us two hours to build this thing, and we don’t want it knocked down because you decided to be a dumbass. Rule the Third: no sex in the fort. That sort of goes along with the previous two, what with the wild humping and bodily fluids. Really, that rule is mostly for Courfeyrac anyway.”

Courfeyrac just shrugs in a “what are you gonna do?” fashion, but Cosette frowns. “That rule is for everybody. I trust no bitch,” she says, turning a serious expression to Enjolras. She holds up two fingers, pointing first to her eyes and then forcefully at him. Enjolras makes a face back at her. Really? Of all the gathered parties here she’s worried about him? Her eyes narrow, and she offers him a slow, semi-terrifying nod.

“Do you swear to uphold these laws,” Grantaire questions.

Pleasantly, Combeferre says, “I will,” and takes the oversized Disney Princess pencil that Éponine hands him and signs the legal pad. Then they all turn to stare at Enjolras. He stares back.

“Think hard on your choice,” Cosette warns. “We intend to stay. You are few, and we are many. If you leave here and wage war against us, I will send my forces to conquer you.”

“Her forces are me,” Bahorel supplies. “Sorry, man, but she’s paying in decorated sugar cookies.”

Cosette smiles smugly, and Enjolras yanks the pencil from Combeferre and scribbles an angry signature on the paper. “Delightful,” Grantaire beams. “And now, let us _Firefly_. Feuilly, the remote.”

They spend the afternoon powering through episodes and lounging around. It’s surprisingly subdued inside the fort, enough that Enjolras, who Combeferre won’t allow to leave and insures his cooperation by having Jehan sit in his lap, actually manages to get a fairly large chunk of his essay on Rousseau and problems of modernity done. Around eight, he finally dislodges Jehan, who rolls over until he can get his head lying on Grantaire’s thigh, and crawls out to make his dinner and shower.

“I assume you’ll all be sleeping here,” he says some time later, toothbrush in hand. A couple of content and sleepy hums sound from the tent. Enjolras sighs to himself. He’d figured as much a couple of hours back when he realized that Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet hadn’t actually moved since three. “For those of you who do not have early morning classes, be warned that I am not going to alter my usual morning routine for you.”

“You never do,” Courfeyrac calls. “We’re used to you not loving us.”

Enjolras arches his brows, and Combeferre says, “Don’t make that face at us. Just go to sleep. This is a rare opportunity for you to actually get a full eight hours. And I’ll know if you stay up reading.”

Sometimes, Enjolras wonders if maybe they’re all too aware of each other.

The next day, Enjolras figures he’ll still have to put up with the fort in his living room, but towards the end of the week he’s starting to get a little annoyed. He comes home from his last class on Thursday to find Bossuet sitting with his back up against the partition that separates the living room and kitchen. He’s wearing spaceman pajamas—how he found a pair of those in his size is a mystery—and is wrapped up in a blanket and playing a Game Boy. He turns a cheerful smile up to Enjolras and, in greeting, says, “I’m on temporary probation.”

Enjolras blinks, glances to the fort, and scolds himself a little for asking, “What did you do?”

“Spilled a glass of juice,” Bossuet says. “But hey, it took me three days to do it. That’s pretty impressive.”

Enjolras balks. “Did it get on the carpet?”

“Yeah,” Bossuet says apologetically. “But don’t worry. Musichetta’s like a ninja with that stuff.”

“I Oxi-Cleaned the shit out of it,” she calls from inside the fort.

Chipper as ever, Bossuet continues, “So I’m kicked out until bed time. It would have been a longer punishment and possible permanent banishment for someone else, but Cosette showed compassion in return for me defying the odds and not taking the whole thing down within an hour by method of my simple existence.”

“Let none say that I am unmerciful,” Cosette says.

“Is there any chance I’m going to get my living room back in the foreseeable future,” Enjolras asks.

“Outlook not so good,” Feuilly says.

Fort Enjolras’s Living Room stands strong for over a month, and its downfall is swift and terrible. And messy.

Enjolras comes home from a meeting with his advisor to find his living room in absolute ruin. The couches, which had already been propped onto their sides, are upside down, legs sticking up in the air. Cushions, blankets, and empty juice boxes are all over the place. The mattress pad is shoved up in the corner, and Joly’s head is poking out from under it. The girls all have their hair in wild, mismatched braids and stripes of color painted onto their faces and arms. Cosette is clutching a spatula and stirring spoon. Behind them, Jehan and Grantaire are both tied up with video game controllers.

Across the room, hiding behind the overturned coffee table and hoarding a box of cookies, sits Courfeyrac, a sheet tied around his neck like a cape. Bossuet and Marius stand over him, strainers on their heads and pot lids held as shields. Bahorel, Feuilly, and Combeferre are lying on the floor between them, Feuilly face down and Combeferre dropped upside down over a stack of cushions.

“What in the hell happened,” Enjolras cries, trying to comprehend all the damages. “Is that a fucking hole in my wall?”

From the floor, Bahorel says, “My bad.” He holds up his elbow, which is still covered in plaster dust.

“Enjolras, my friend,” Courfeyrac says brightly. “An unbiased party. Perhaps you would be so kind as to mitigate these proceedings? Cookie?”

“Do not attempt to sway his favor,” Cosette warns, brandishing the spoon threateningly. “Or we shall find the truce false and will be forced to make an example of one of our hostages.”

“Do what you want,” Jehan cries. “We’ll never break!”

“As long as whatever you want doesn’t entail us not getting birthday cannoli this year,” Grantaire amends.

“Well, obviously,” Jehan says.

“Okay, but there is an actual hole in my wall,” Enjolras yells. “How did that happen?”

“It’s Courfeyrac’s fault, really,” Musichetta starts.

“Isn’t it always,” Enjolras growls, shooting his friend a dark look. Courfeyrac just smiles innocently, taking a bite of a cookie.

“Be fair. It’s Jehan’s fault too,” Éponine says.

“Yeah, but look at that face,” Musichetta says, leaning back to pat at his cheek. Jehan blushes just a bit and smiles at her.

“Can I please get some real answers here,” Enjolras snaps.

“Right,” Musichetta says. “So it’s Courfeyrac’s fault. We caught him and Jehan blowing each other in the fort, and Rule the Third clearly states that no sex may be had in the fort.”

“Obviously banishment was the only course of action,” Cosette says. “Even as it pains us to see one of the Four go.”

“Feeling sympathy for his fellow King, Grantaire tried to stick up for him, moving for the rule to be altered to allow for hand stuff and oral,” Éponine says, “but my laws cannot be changed or challenged.”

“Civil war broke out amongst us. Brother pitted against sister,” Cosette recites, and Enjolras wonders if they’ve been rehearsing this. “Joly is Switzerland.”

From under the mattress pad, Joly waves. “I think I’m getting a sinus infection, and all that wrestling around would aggravate my headache.”

“The battle has been fierce,” Cosette continues. “I’ve lost my Captain of the Queensguard.”

Bahorel leans his head back to meet her gaze and places a hand mournfully over his heart. “Apologies, Khaleesi.”

“You fought with honor,” Cosette assures him.

“You betrayed your gender,” Courfeyrac accuses.

“Please,” Éponine scoffs. “You’re just being a sore loser.”

“We brought down Bahorel,” Courfeyrac brags. “And I’m just saying, other than Bahorel, we did kind of accidentally do this as a boys versus girls thing.”

“To be fair,” Combeferre says, his face a little pink from the blood rushing to his head. “Men outnumber the women in this group. Significantly. It’s not unreasonable that the girls have Bahorel considering that in size alone he equates about three normal people.”

“To continue this epic tale, for which I assume Jehan will write a ballad if he survives,” Musichetta starts.

“I’ve got the first three quatrains mostly finished,” Jehan declares.

“Lovely,” Musichetta quips. “But anyway, civil war, fierce battle, and all that. Betrayals,” she adds with a dark look at Bossuet.

“Hey,” Courfeyrac calls. “Don’t be jealous that he sided with me.”

“You bought him with blood money,” Musichetta accuses.

“I did no such thing,” Courfeyrac says, offended, and he slowly passes Bossuet a cookie from the tin he’s clutching to his chest. “You’re jealous,” he says again. “Jealous because you didn’t see his potential as a weapon of mass destruction.”

“Of course I know his potential as a WMD,” Musichetta scoffs. “Do you know how many lamps I’ve had to replace since the boys moved in? I was just decent enough to not take advantage of him.”

“Well, I have no regrets. We won a significant victory when he tripped over the refrigerator cord and brought down the east wing.” He holds up his hands, and without looking, Marius and Bossuet move to complete the high fives. Marius gets it right, but Bossuet accidentally hits Courfeyrac in the head.

A thought occurs. “Feuilly hasn’t said anything or moved since I got here,” Enjolras says. “He’s not actually hurt, is he?”

“Some of us actually understand the concept of being dead,” Feuilly grumbles, his voice muffled in the carpet.

“So,” Cosette says, throwing a pillow at him and smirking at his grunt, “Enjolras, what say you? Will you stand to oversee these peace talks?”

Enjolras slowly takes in the state of his living room again, eyes lingering on all the damages he will later enjoy watching his friends pay for. “Yes,” he says. “I think I can solve all of this.” He moves to stand in the middle of the carnage. “At the completion of the construction of the fort, before any and all parties were allowed access to the inner halls, a signature was required to the rules and regulations as seen on that legal pad.” He points at the pad, which is bent in half, obviously a casualty of the scuffle.

“The rules, as written on said legal pad, are law, infallible and unbreakable. They are clear and concise. Courfeyrac and Jehan’s disregard for the laws cannot be overlooked. Not even a king is above the law,” he declares.

The girls all cheer and exchange loud high fives. Courfeyrac’s face spasms, torn between pouting and glaring at Enjolras.

“However,” Enjolras continues, and the girls fall silent. “Courfeyrac and Jehan are not the only law breakers present. All of you are guilty of a blatant and malicious contempt for Rule the Second, which states that horse play is forbidden.”

Even Feuilly lifts his head up to stare at Enjolras.

“The evidence is clear,” Enjolras says, arms spread wide. “All have broken the law. All are guilty. All must face the consequences of their actions, which, plainly stated, is banishment from the fort. And with none others still able to enter its confines, this party decrees that the fort must be completely dismantled and its parts returned to their proper places.”

As he finishes his speech, silence falls over the apartment. They all gape up at him, astonished until Grantaire whistles, “Oh snap, Apollo.” And Enjolras smiles, pleased with the legal recapture of his living room. 


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in the next few chapters for alcohol abuse. Also, I'm sorry.

Enjolras regrets the words as soon as they’ve left his mouth, but he can’t take them back. The room is silent, heavy and suffocating with it. Everyone is staring at them, but all Enjolras can see is the way Grantaire is struggling to keep his face straight. He can’t hide the raging of his eyes. Enjolras wants to grab him, to swear to him that he didn’t mean those things, but words, which he usually commands in a manner that rivals any classical philosopher or poet of legend, those words fail him.

Grantaire swallows thickly, blinks twice, and then his expression shifts back into that usual lazy, slightly amused disinterest. But his eyes are still ablaze. He brings up the bottle in his hand, his knuckles white around the neck, and pulls a long sip. “Whatever you say, Enjolras,” he says, more like spits. “You’re the boss, after all.” His tone drops bitterly, and he shoulders past Enjolras, shoving him. His hip hits table sharply, but he can’t think of anything to say, anything to do that would keep Grantaire from storming out.

He can’t move even as Éponine breaks away from where she’d been peeking over Marius’s shoulder with Cosette. She glares at Enjolras as she runs past, disgust and disappointment there. She follows Grantaire outside, and the room is still so silent, they can hear him shouting at her, bellowing drunkenly for her to leave him alone. The things he yells at her, taking out all the anger that should be directed at Enjolras, and still he can’t break from his stupor.

It’s silent outside for some moments before Éponine comes back in, and in her eyes is all the furious rage of protective anger. “You son of a bitch,” she snarls, and she shoves Enjolras hard. He doesn’t fight her, just stands braced against the bar and lets her berate him until Marius and Courfeyrac manage to grab ahold of her and pull her back. “How could you do that to him?”

Enjolras still can’t speak, certainly not in his own defense, because he doesn’t have one. He can only stand there and allow her to tear into him. "So he isn't like you? So he isn't as serious? So he doesn’t measure up to every impossibly high standard you try to force on him? It's time to open your eyes, Enjolras." She swallows thickly. "You don't deserve him."  
  
She's right. And he proves her further right when he turns and leaves the bar, heading not for Grantaire's apartment but for his own. He should go after him. He should apologize, as he should have done immediately. But Grantaire was furious, rightly so. Enjolras doubts he'd listen to anything he has to say right now. And he wouldn't blame him.  
  
So he walks home the two miles to his dorm, his bag slapping into his bruised hip. He doesn't readjust it.  
  
The next morning Enjolras awakes feeling something akin to miserable. His sleep, what little he'd managed of it, had been poor. He reaches for his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he finds Grantaire's number. He has it memorized, of course, but the scrolling takes more time. He stares at the number, his thumb hovering over the screen.  
  
He thinks suddenly that he's never actually apologized to Grantaire before, but then again, he had never said anything so crass and hurtful to his friend before. Although, he wonders if he can still call the other man his friend after such words.  
  
He rethinks calling. Provided Grantaire is even awake, what if he sees that it's Enjolras calling and ignores it? Not the end of the world, but Enjolras is anxious about it nonetheless. Or what if, far worse, he does answer but tells Enjolras to fuck off?  
  
Enjolras spends a full ten minutes staring at the contact on his phone before he finally forces himself to place the call. It rings several times before going to voicemail. Well, he thinks, at least he isn't being ignored. Maybe. His heart thunders in his chest as he leaves a voicemail that carefully asks Grantaire to return his call so that they can talk things out.  
  
Having done what he can for the moment, Enjolras pulls himself out of bed, neatly tucking the sheets back in before selecting his clothes for the day and heading to his shower. Later, washed and dressed, wet curls still dripping down his neck, he checks his phone. There hasn't been a response. He debates with himself for five minutes before sending a text.  
  
There isn't any decent food in his pantry; he's been putting off going to the store in favor of all-nighters at the library. They've gotten through midterms, but Enjolras is a double major in the honors program and has leadership positions in several academic organizations. He doesn't have much in the way of free time.  
  
He reorganizes his bag and grabs his phone from the counter. He'll get breakfast at the café. He keeps his phone in his hand as he walks down the wet sidewalks. He doesn't want to risk missing a message from Grantaire, not that anything comes through. He attempts one more call just as he's walking into the café.  
  
Courfeyrac is there, looking a bit worse for the wear. The look he gives Enjolras is slightly uncomfortable. "All right," he asks, his expression almost as pained as his tone. Enjolras levels him with a stern look, and Courfeyrac throws his hands into the air. "It was awkward last night, all right? I am allowed to be weirded out."  
  
Enjolras almost wants to roll his eyes, but he can't help but glance at his phone instead, hoping it's lit up since Courfeyrac has had his attention.  
  
The other boy notices. "Haven't heard from him?"  
  
"Not yet," Enjolras sighs.  
  
"Well, it's early," Courfeyrac says, always optimistic and hopeful. "He's probably just sleeping it off. Give him a bit." Enjolras does his best to offer Courfeyrac a small smile in gratitude for his words. Courfeyrac just pats his back and orders them two coffees.  
  
Enjolras spends the next hour picking at his vegan veggies omelet, sipping increasingly cooling coffee, rereading the same paragraph in his book, and checking his phone. Marius and Cosette have joined them since, and Marius tries not to keep count of all the times he sees Enjolras glance at the phone, but he can't help but notice each instance.  
  
He can't take it after the thirty-fourth time and asks, "Want me to try him?" On any other day, Enjolras would have frowned and likely scoffed at him, but he just nods almost blankly. It puts something heavy in Marius's chest as he pulls up Grantaire's number. "No answer," he says a moment later. Enjolras looks something like a kicked puppy.  
  
Cosette pulls out her own phone and after a short conversation, she says, "Éponine can't get him either. She said she tried more last night, but he wasn't very receptive." She pauses and winces. "I'm not saying that," she says into the phone. They can all hear Éponine's voice raise a few octaves.  
  
With a pained expression, she looks to Enjolras and says, "Éponine wants you to know she's still upset with you. No," she adds into the phone, "you can tell him that yourself. I swear, you could make a sailor blush."  
  
Almost timidly, an emotion that Enjolras is not well acquainted with, he asks, "Has she been by his place?"  
  
Cosette relays the question and then the answer, "Last night. She says they screamed at each other through the door for a while since he refused to let her in."  
  
Enjolras taps his fingers on the counter for a moment before standing. He digs his wallet from his back pocket and throws an appropriate amount of bills down. "I'm going to go check on him," he says and is out the door before the others can say anything about it.  
  
Grantaire's apartment is a shorter walk from the bar than Enjolras's. The perfect distance for either a leisurely smashed stumble or drunken sprinting, he says, usually with a saucy wink.  
  
Enjolras tries not to think of the mixture of exasperation and fondness that wink often stirs in him.  
  
Grantaire's door is locked, and banging on it gets him nowhere, except to be yelled at by the neighbor across the hall. Enjolras apologizes and steels himself for the much more difficult way he's going to have to use to get into the apartment. It's not easy and requires a bit of acrobatic talent, but there's a tree just close enough to Grantaire's balcony that he can jump from. He stares up the trunk with a frown but with steely resolve starts to pull himself up. He's seen Grantaire do this drunk, so he has to assume that he can manage it too when he's as sober as the day he was born.  
  
He ends up with scratched palms and a banged shin, but he makes it. The balcony door slides open easily, and he slips into the apartment. "Grantaire," he calls. "It's Enjolras. I know, breaking and entering, but you weren't answering any calls, and we were getting worried."  
  
There's no answer. Enjolras takes a moment to look around. Grantaire has never been particularly neat. Yet another mannerism to which he is Enjolras's polar opposite. There are dirty shirts and pants and a few mismatched shoes littering the floor. There are unwashed glasses, empty bottles and cigarette cartons, various art supplies, and crumpled papers all around. His keys are on the floor by the counter, obviously thrown haphazardly.  
  
On the couch is his phone, the screen cracked. There's a dent in the wall above it, and Enjolras winces. He must have thrown it, but before or after seeing that Enjolras had tried calling?  
  
Enjolras draws in a deep breath, hoping that he doesn't find himself with a fist to his face by the end of this, and heads for Grantaire's room. It's dark inside, and even messier than the living room. Enjolras is fairly certain that none of Grantaire's clothes ever make it into the closet or well-worn and nicked dresser.  
  
In the middle of the bed, Grantaire is still sleeping. He's tangled in the sheets, flopped onto his stomach with limbs all askew. Another deep breath, and Enjolras reaches out to shake his shoulder. "Grantaire," he says, trying to not speak too loudly to spare the hangover Grantaire is sure to have.  
  
The other man doesn't stir, so Enjolras shakes him harder. Still there is no movement. Enjolras's heart rate picks up, and he all but yells, "Grantaire, wake up!"  
  
In a flash of panic, he pushes his fingers against Grantaire's neck, looking for a pulse. He jerks his hand back, surprised by the coolness of Grantaire's skin. The panic all but explodes, and he grabs Grantaire to turn him on his back. He fumbles again for the pulse. It's there, faint, but it's there. Of course, Enjolras is no doctor. Maybe he's got the wrong spot. He nearly knocks over the lamp in his haste to get the lights turned on.  
  
Vision improved, Enjolras can see how pale Grantaire is. He places on hand over Grantaire's mouth, the other resting on his chest. He waits, and it takes too many long seconds before he feels the light puff of breath.  
  
In less than an instant, he's pulled out his phone, cursing as he takes three tries to make the damned swipe work properly. He calls 911, his other hand never leaving Grantaire's chest.  
  
"My friend isn't breathing," he almost hollers into the phone when the operator answers. He gives an address and stammers that he thinks it's alcohol poisoning.  
  
The woman calmly tells him to sit with his friend, that help is on the way, and he wants to scream at her. How can she be so calm when his friend is dying? She stays on the line with him, all the while speaking to him in that damnedable soothing tone. His logical brain tries to tell him that she's just doing her job, that she deals with people in hysterics daily, that she knows better how to talk him through the long moments until the ambulance arrives, but his heart is racing, and what good is logic right now?  
  
When the paramedics knock on the door, Enjolras flies out to let them in. He stands back, pressed against the wall as they hurry for the bedroom. Grantaire is strapped to a gurney, and they rush him out.  
  
"Are you coming," one calls over his shoulder, and Enjolras scrambles after them, almost tripping down the stairs.  
  
The ride to the hospital is excruciating. His hands shake as he pulls out his phone once again and calls Courfeyrac. He's almost not sure if he's making any sense, but he must get the message across clearly enough, because Courfeyrac is then assuring him, voice laced with the same panic Enjolras is lost in, that they're all on their way.  
  
Upon arrival, Grantaire is wheeled away from him, and Enjolras wants desperately to follow, but he's stopped by a nurse, who enlists his aid in getting down what personal information of Grantaire's they can. He's surprised to discover that he is Grantaire's emergency contact, rather than the man's parents. Something about that cuts into him, and he starts shaking in earnest.   
  
His friends all arrive together in a blaze of commotion. Courfeyrac and Combeferre collide with Enjolras, and Éponine all but snarls at the receptionists desk as she demands answers as to Grantaire's condition, Cosette at her side with wild, fierce eyes.  
  
They are left to worry and wait for several hours before a doctor finally comes to talk to them. He informs them that Grantaire had indeed been diagnosed with alcohol poisoning, that they'd had to pump his stomach. "It was a very close call," the doctor says. "He's lucky the ambulance was called when it was. Any longer and I don't like those chances."  
  
The doctor leads them back into the room where Grantaire is being kept. There are numerous tubes connected to him, ones to monitor his various vitals and others to help put fluids back into his dehydrated body.  
  
They crowd into the room. Éponine slides into the chair that's pulled against the side of the bed. She takes Grantaire's hand in hers, frowning briefly at his still cold skin. She pushes back wild hair from his forehead, and Courfeyrac and Cosette crowd onto his other side. Joly busies himself reading through Grantaire’s chart, Combeferre looking over his shoulder. The others all watch on, standing tensely and hardly daring to breathe.  
  
No one is sure how long it takes. The minutes drag on like weeks, and the clock never seems to make any sense no matter how many times they glance at it. Éponine, still holding Grantaire's hand, is the first to notice him stirring. She lets out a slight gasp and sits up straighter. Tears spill over her cheeks as he blinks bleary eyes open.  
  
"Get the doctor," she barks, and Combeferre scurries to poke his head out of the room and call out. "Hey, welcome back," she says, far more gently as she smiles at Grantaire and pushes back his hair again. He gurgles and coughs at her, and the doctor walks in with a cup of ice chips.  
  
There is a brief examination, and the doctor announces that Grantaire seems to be recovering well enough. They'll be keeping him overnight for observation, and he needs rest, but they're all allowed to stay and visit a bit longer.  
  
"You gave us quite a scare," Cosette says, leaning down to kiss his forehead. The others crowd around, and she slips past Marius to allow him better access to their friend. She lets out a deep breath, one she feels she's been holding in for hours. It's so hard to imagine that they had just been about to order lunch when Courfeyrac had gotten the call. It seems that moment had been years ago.  
  
She watches as her friends all hover over Grantaire's bed, all speaking to him in soft tones and reaching out for gentle touches. All of them but one.  
  
Enjolras stands in the back of the room, tense and rigid. His face is pale and eyes red. Cosette sees the shaking of his hands that he's balled into fists at his side. He stares at Grantaire on the bed for a long moment before he turns on his heel and rushes from the room.  
  
Cosette looks back towards the group. Only Grantaire has noticed Enjolras's departure. He stares at the door with a look that might have been guarded if he wasn't fighting off the effects of anesthesia.  
  
Quietly, Cosette slips from the room. She finds Enjolras halfway down the long hall. He's pressed up against the wall, the only thing holding him up on shaking legs. His chest is heaving as he tries to suck in a breath. Cosette runs for him. "Enjolras," she says, reaching for him but not touching.  
  
He looks up at her, expression stricken. "He's—he's—“  
  
"He's going to be okay," she assures him.  
  
Enjolras crumples, folding in on himself and sliding to the floor as he sobs. Cosette drops with him, gathering him into her arms. He leans into her embrace, his body convulsing as he struggles to breathe. Tears, snot, and spit stain her blouse, but Cosette just holds him, rubbing soothing circles on his back under his shirt.  
  
A nurse kneels beside them and helps Cosette to coach Enjolras get his breathing under control. She disappears briefly and returns with a cup of water and two small pills. "They'll help him relax," she explains. Cosette offers the pills to Enjolras, and he takes them shakily. It requires an extra hand from the nurse, but then Cosette gets Enjolras back on his feet. She slips under his arm and half leads and half drags him over to a nearby men's room.  
  
"You can't be in here," exclaims a surprised patient exiting a stall. Cosette offers him her very best glare—what Éponine would refer to as a super bitch face, more concentrated than a normal bitch face—and he scurries away.  
  
There's a flimsy plastic chair that Cosette drags over to the sink and lowers Enjolras into. She pulls loose a few paper towels and holds them under the cold water. She turns back to Enjolras, and he is staring blankly up at her, tears still falling down his cheeks. His eyes and face are red and blotchy, and she thinks that this is the first time she's ever seen him look anything less than immaculate and beautiful, including those times from protests gone wrong, when his pretty face would be marred by a split lip or black eye.  
  
Pushing the thought away, she holds the wet towel to one cheek and then the other, slowly cleaning the hot and flushed skin. His mouth works wordlessly, and with a gentle smile she shushes him. "It's all right," she says. "He's all right."  
  
Enjolras shakes his head. "This is my fault," he whispers hoarsely.  
  
"Don't think that," she says, pushing back his golden curls. But there is a small and vindictive part of her brain that whispers that it was his fault. He had said those awful things to Grantaire, and then Grantaire had left and drank himself near to death.  
  
She had wanted to shake him, still wants to a little bit. Enjolras is so driven, so focused on his studies and dreams of social change, that he often doesn't notice the personal things going on around him, or at least considers them not worthy of his attention and time. That’s not to say that he’s not a good friend and wouldn’t be there if someone needed him. He’s just distracted, and it's always seemed that he never noticed that which everyone else can see so clearly, how very much Grantaire is in love with him. And to hear him, the one person who can make or break Grantaire, say such things, how could he—any of them—expect anything less than this.  
  
But she also knows that Enjolras regrets what he said, knows that he'd been worried all morning, and now he's punishing himself more than anything she could possibly say would. So she keeps it all to herself and just continues to press the cool towel to his skin.  
  
It's a few moments before she can hear Marius in the hallway. "In here," she calls loud enough to be heard through the door. It creaks open, and Marius sticks his head in. "Cosette," he questions, confused until he sees Enjolras slumped miserably in the chair. He hurries over, Combeferre right behind him, and Enjolras stares at them for a moment before leaning forward and pressing his face against Combeferre’s side. Combeferre wraps his arms around his friend and rocks a bit.  
  
"We've got him," Marius says after a moment, reaching a hand to hook around the back of Cosette's neck. He gently pulls her close enough to kiss her forehead. Combeferre mouths thanks at her, and she nods, pressing her own kiss to Enjolras's head before leaving to join the others in Grantaire's room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. Just a disclaimer, while I do know several alcoholics, I've never actually had to deal with someone in a situation like this. So I had to do a bit of research, but I don't pretend to have gotten everything down correctly. In this and the follow up chapters, if anyone spots anything that is incorrect or wants to add anything about the recovery process of such an episode, you are more than welcome to comment. My writing can only benefit from your knowledge.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The saga continues.

Grantaire is kept overnight at the hospital. None of them go home, despite protests from the hospital staff, and they’re eventually set up with a couple of cots and a few uncomfortable chairs. Grantaire sleeps like the dead, and Enjolras steadily tracks the movement of the heart monitor, watching with bated breath and praying to not see any skips or a slowing of the pattern.

The next morning the doctor comes in and checks Grantaire over and then informs them that he’ll be release to go home in a few hours. “Someone will need to stay with him for a few days,” the doctor says, after he’s allowed them all back into the room following a private talk with Grantaire.

“I will,” Enjolras volunteers, and Éponine snaps, “A word, Enjolras,” before dragging him back out into the hallway.

They do their best to not scream at each other. They’re in a hospital, after all, and just outside of Grantaire’s door. Éponine doesn’t want Enjolras there with him, certainly not alone. “This is my fault, Éponine,” Enjolras snaps. “I know that. I know. That’s why—I need to do something. I need to start trying to make up for this.”

“You could at least give him a moment to get his feet back under him before you rip out his heart again,” she snarls. She’s protective of him, fiercely so. He thinks back to the night of the fight—God, not even a full two days ago—when she said he didn’t deserve Grantaire. She’s right. He deserves someone more like her.

“I’m not—I don’t mean to,” Enjolras says, his shoulders dropping. “Ep, look, I just—I have to. I can’t go home until I know that he’s going to be all right. I can’t.”

She stares at him for a long moment.

“Please, Éponine,” he says. “I’m begging you. Please give me a chance to talk to him.”

She looks angry, but then she deflates. “Don’t make me regret this,” she warns. “I will kill you if you hurt him again.” Enjolras nods, and for half a second, he wants to hug her, but he’s pretty sure she’d rip his arms off.

Grantaire is given another round of medications just before he’s discharged, so he’s drowsy the entire ride back to his apartment. Enjolras and Marius help him up the stairs, and Cosette immediately tsks at seeing the state of the place and starts cleaning. Éponine untangles the blankets on the bed, still a mess from where Enjolras had thrown them the previous morning, and they get Grantaire settled in. He’s out of it and just groans at them.

Éponine is still bristling, so Enjolras leaves the room and goes to help Cosette in her cleaning. It’s really too big a job for one person, and she’s never done something so wrong as to have to pick up any of Grantaire’s dirty clothes.

Combeferre and Jehan show up about a half hour later with the prescriptions filled out, Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet moments behind them with groceries, which Courfeyrac starts using to make a soup as soon as the kitchen space is cleared. “I’m sorry, I’ll wipe it down after,” he says when he sees Cosette offering him a slightly put out frown.

Homemade chicken broth is brewing on the stove for a bit before Bossuet pipes up. “Okay, I know he’d probably just break my nose for it, but after everything, I kind of want to throw all of this away.” He motions to Grantaire’s stash of liquor, a collection entirely separate from the wine in the cabinet and the beer in the refrigerator.

“We should probably talk about that,” Courfeyrac says softly. “What we’re going to do about this.”

Cosette makes a worried hum, and Enjolras starts scrubbing harder at the dishes in the sink.

“I mean, we’ve always just sort of laughed about it,” Courfeyrac continues, and he sounds miserable. “Well, not always laughed, but it’s always just been ‘Oh, that’s just how Grantaire is,’ and as long as he wasn’t trying to drive anyone’s car, we mostly just left it at that.”

“I’ve thought he’s needed an intervention for a while now,” Combeferre admits with a wince behind his glasses. “It’s not just an every night thing anymore. It’s an all the time thing. First thing he does in the morning is grabs a bottle, before he even puts on pants. I mean, he’s not just a drunk. He’s an alcoholic, and a severe one at that. That he’s functional doesn’t make it all right.”

“So, I guess, what, we give him a few days to get rested up,” Marius starts. “Then we sit him down and talk to him?”

“He’s not going to like it,” Bossuet warns.

“Tough shit,” Bahorel snaps. “He tried to drink himself to death.”

A pot slips from Enjolras’s hands with a loud clang in the sink. Everyone turns to look at him. He tries to swallow, but there’s something stuck in his throat. His knees buckle, and Cosette is there again to catch him. Joly jumps up from the armchair and motions Cosette to bring him there. He drops bonelessly, his head hanging almost between his knees. Cosette stays over him, rubbing her hand over the back of his neck.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre asks.

He can feel it bubbling up, and he fights to push it down. He’d already broken down yesterday, and he just doesn’t have the energy to go through it again. He just digs his fingers into his hair and mutters, “My fault.”

The room is silent for a moment before Feuilly says in a soft but firm tone, “You didn’t force him to drink anything. He made that choice himself.”

“I—“

“No,” Feuilly says. “Okay, you fought, and that was what drove him to get angry enough to do this, but he wasn’t even as bad as we’ve ever seen when he left the bar, nowhere near. You didn’t force him into anything. And you know what, it’s not the first time you two have gone at it, and frankly, he doesn’t need to argue with you to get smashed.”

“It really isn’t your fault,” Courfeyrac says, dropping a hand to Enjolras’s shoulder. “But he does need help.”

They don’t make any concrete plans that night. Grantaire is drugged and exhausted, waking up only briefly for Éponine and Courfeyrac to insist that he get some soup down while Cosette administers the next round of meds. Everyone is slow to filter out and go back to their own apartments, eventually leaving only Enjolras and Éponine. They sort of loiter around the living room, cleaning and rearranging things, slipping in to check on Grantaire every so often. Enjolras spends most of the night on his tablet, researching rehab centers.

The next morning Marius and Cosette return with breakfast options, vegan for Enjolras and something light but solid for when Grantaire wakes. He’s doing better, actually up and moving about a bit. Éponine keeps him wrapped up in his comforter on the couch, and he has at least enough humor to call her Mom for most of the day.

The others come and go, and soon enough, it’s after dinner, and Combeferre has loaded up and started the seldom used dishwasher, and they’re all leaving. Éponine stares Enjolras down as she follows Marius and Cosette out the door, and her expression speaks of his utter demolition if he puts a single toe out of line.

The door clicks shut, and the silence hanging between them is deafening. Grantaire is still on the couch, bundled up in the thick blanket. His face is still pale, and there are dark circles under his eyes. He looks like utter hell, and Enjolras feels his chest seize up again. He’s the one that did this, no matter what the others say.

Grantaire is the first one to look away, snaking a hand out from the blanket to find the remote. He doesn’t have cable, because that’s money that he would rather put towards his twice weekly liquor store runs, but he did drag an extensive external hard drive set up from home. He pulls up some fast paced action thriller that Enjolras wouldn’t have seen and sinks further into his spot until only his eyes and wild curls are visible.

Enjolras has no idea what to say or do, so he just shuffles forward and grabs the glass from the table to refill it with water. The movie plays on for a while until Enjolras looks over and sees Grantaire’s eyes drooping.

“You should probably go to bed,” Enjolras says, trying to keep his tone light and neutral.

Grantaire’s eyes cut to him, and he stares for a while before muttering, “Yeah.” He’s slow to push himself up, and Enjolras tries to help, but he’s waved off. Grantaire takes the comforter with him, walking slowly to keep from tripping, and Enjolras follows with the water and the next round of medication, which Grantaire takes as he’s flopping down onto the bed.

He’s lying there, sprawled on his back, and it suddenly all hits Enjolras. They’re the only ones here, and the last time that had happened had been Enjolras discovering Grantaire barely alive right in this same spot. He can’t breathe. He absolutely can’t breathe.

“Can you get the lights, man,” Grantaire grumbles.

“Of course,” Enjolras manages to say clearly, reaching out with shaking fingers to turn off the lamp. He puts the water on the bedside table, and turns to leave the room, but he finds himself just settling in on a fold out chair that Grantaire insists is good enough for in-home furniture use.

"You really don't have to hang out in here," Grantaire says around a yawn. "I'm good."  
  
"It's no trouble," Enjolras answers.  
  
It's only a moment before Grantaire shifts, and Enjolras jumps up. "Are you all right," he asks worriedly, reaching for the other man.  
  
"You kidding," Grantaire asks, and in the light that seeps in through the blinds, Enjolras can just make out him cracking one eye open. "I was just readjusting."  
  
"All right," Enjolras says, slipping a hand up to feel Grantaire's forehead. "You're a bit warm. Maybe some water?"  
  
"I said I'm fine," Grantaire almost snaps.  
  
"Oh," Enjolras says quietly, and he sits back down, folding his hands between his knees.  
  
It's silent for a few minutes before Grantaire sighs. "Get in the bed."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Get in the bed," Grantaire repeats. "That chair isn't comfortable, and you're apparently insistent on being in the same room."  
  
"It's okay," Enjolras says in the same quiet tone.  
  
"Like hell," Grantaire counters. "Have you slept in the past couple of days, because you look like complete shit." Enjolras doesn't answer. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Just get your ass over here."  
  
Enjolras can't make himself move. How could Grantaire want him anywhere near him after everything that had happened?  
  
"You didn't make me pick up the bottles," Grantaire grumbles, and Enjolras realizes he had spoken aloud.  
  
"It's still my fault," Enjolras says. "How can you even stand to have me here? I keep expecting you to throw me out."  
  
"I wanted to," Grantaire says. "But Ep insisted."  
  
He tries to not hate the way his heart constricts. He deserves it, after all. "She did? She told me she didn't want me here either."  
  
"Something about giving her a clear opening to kick your ass," he says. "Why are you here?"  
  
"Why am—R—Grantaire, we fought and then you—you almost died, and it was all because of me, because I lost my temper and was stupid enough to say things that I don't even believe. I just, I don't know, you can—you just make me so angry sometimes."  
  
"Nothing new there," Grantaire mumbles. "I've always been a disappointment to you."  
  
"No, you haven't," Enjolras hurries to say.  
  
"Really," Grantaire asks lowly. "Because I don't think there's ever gone an hour that we've known each other that you haven't looked at me like you'd give anything to just be rid of me."  
  
"I don't think that," Enjolras says. "If I've seemed that way, that's never been my intention."  
  
Grantaire just hums.  
  
"Why did you do it," Enjolras asks, putting to words the question he dreads hearing the answer to. "Were you trying to die?"  
  
Grantaire is quiet for long moments, and Enjolras's eyes sting. "Grantaire, please."  
  
"I don't know," he says, voice hardly more than a whisper. "I don't know what I was trying to do. I was just so fucking angry and hurt and—Jesus, you still don't understand, do you?"  
  
"Understand what?"  
  
"Fuck," Grantaire breathes. "You don't. You really don't fucking get it."  
  
"What don't I get?" His heart is racing.  
  
"I didn't know what I was doing with my life for so long. No plans, no direction. You know, all that stuff that you berate me for, because you came popping out into the world knowing exactly what the fuck you were going to do with your life at every god damned moment."  
  
That's not entirely true, Enjolras thinks. Yes, he plans everything he can possibly imagine, but Grantaire entering his life wasn't exactly something he had been prepared for. And with anything else, it would drive him mad, but for some reason, there’s a part of him, some part that seems so out of character, that is drawn to Grantaire and wants that unexpectedness to stick around. But he doesn't say any of that.  
  
"And then, suddenly, you were there, and I still don't know what I'm doing, but I know that whatever it is, it's not worth anything if you aren't within my sight," Grantaire says. "There's nothing for me without you there. If you truly think nothing of me, then that's it. I am nothing."  
  
"No," Enjolras exclaims. "No, that's—you're giving me too much credit here, R."  
  
"I don't think I could give you enough," Grantaire counters. "You’re like the sun. I'm just a ball of ice without you, cold and lifeless."  
  
Grantaire came too close to that image just days ago, body limp, skin cold and going blue. Enjolras can still feel the shock of it in his fingertips. It's a terrible image that he doesn't think is ever going to leave his nightmares.  
  
"Enjolras," Grantaire asks, propping up on his elbows. Enjolras finally notices part of the reason for the tightness of his chest is that he's not able to draw in air. Grantaire's hand shoots out to grab his arm, and it's warm. His hands are warm. Enjolras gasps air in like a man who had until that moment been drowning.  
  
"Please," he gasps, "please don't say that. God, the way you looked, God."  
  
"Fuck," Grantaire mutters, and he tugs on Enjolras's arm. This time he doesn't protest Grantaire's invitation. He almost trips as he stumbles out of the chair, falling into the space Grantaire clears for him. He clings to his friend, tears streaming from his eyes.  
  
"You idiot," he sobs. "You everlasting idiot. Do you have any idea what it would have done to us—to me—if you hadn't—“ He buries his face in Grantaire's neck. The other sits there, still and shocked by the display. He's never seen emotions like this from Enjolras.  
  
"You've crawled under my skin," Enjolras says wetly. "And I don't know how to ever get you out."  
  
He feels a drop of moisture fall onto his cheek, and he dares to hold tighter to Grantaire, although he knows he doesn't deserve this comfort. Grantaire's fingers settle over his hair, petting the curls down.  
  
"You almost died, and if you had, it would have been with the absolute most misguided belief that I thought little of you, that I hated you. So—it's so far from the truth. You would have gone without me getting the chance to beg forgiveness from you. Not that you should give it, but I'll do what I have to, anything, to try to begin to make it up to you." His voice is muffled into Grantaire's shoulder.  
  
The other heaves a great sigh. "I've already forgiven you. I can't—no matter how angry you make me sometimes, no matter how much it feels like you're tearing into my heart, I can't stay mad."  
  
"I don't—“ Enjolras tries to fold in closer. "I don't deserve you."  
  
"I—we should go to sleep," Grantaire says, his voice trembling.  
  
Enjolras pushes back like he's been burned. "Y-yes," he stammers. "You need rest. I'm sorry I've kept you up." He scoots away, ready to extract himself from the bed, but again his wrist is grabbed by Grantaire.  
  
"Stay," he begs softly.  
  
Enjolras nods, but he's not sure Grantaire can see it in the dim light. He settles back into the bed, trying to not crowd too close to Grantaire. He's already made a spectacle of himself, sobbing on him when he had no right. The bed is a small full, hardly able to hold the both of them, certainly not without touching. They lie there for some time, and when Grantaire's breathing begins to even out, a flash of panic tears thought Enjolras. His hand shoots out before he can stop it, falling over Grantaire's chest.  
  
It jerks the other back awake. "Enjolras, what," he asks groggily.  
  
"I—I," he stammers.  
  
"Enjolras," Grantaire says, more awake and voice heavy with concern.  
  
"I just need to make sure," Enjolras gasps.  
  
Grantaire lets out a long, slow breath, and then he reaches up, his hand closing over Enjolras's, moving it to rest right over his heart. Enjolras times his own breathing to the steady _thump thump_ that beats into his palm, and he is slowly lulled to sleep.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thrilling conclusion. (not of the whole story, just this arc)

Enjolras wakes up to movement underneath his arm. He grumbles and buries his face into the pillow that smells a little of oak and ash and something that is just entirely Grantaire. The bed shifts with the other body in it getting up, and Enjolras wants to protest the warmth leaving, but he’s still mostly asleep, and he can’t even form words to ask Grantaire where he’s going.

He just lies there until he hears a faint but very distinctive _pop_ sounding from the front of the apartment.

Enjolras is up in a flash, tripping over the sheets and hurrying into the common area. Grantaire is standing in the kitchenette, pouring wine into a glass. “What are you doing,” Enjolras cries.

“Exactly what it looks like,” Grantaire says, and God, he sounds so beyond exhausted.

“Grantaire, you were in the hospital for severe alcohol poisoning two days ago. Don’t drink that,” Enjolras warns.

Grantaire doesn’t look up at him. He just slowly plugs the cork back into the bottle. “This isn’t the first time it’s happened,” he says. “It won’t kill me to have this.”

“Grantaire—“

“It might kill me to not have it though,” he goes on, taking a slow sip of the wine.

Enjolras stands frozen, his arm out stretched. There’s a lump in his throat that he can’t seem to push down. He needs to say something right now, but it feels impossible.

Grantaire takes another slow sip and says, “Look, it’s not—I’m not drinking to get drunk right now. I just—I need this, okay? It’s been—what—almost four days. Maybe the drugs helped push it back, but my hands are starting to get shaky.” He holds one out, and Enjolras can clearly see the tremors.

“Have you ever seen someone go through alcohol withdrawals,” Grantaire asks, and then he chuckles darkly. “No, you wouldn’t have. It’s how one of my uncles died. He was really fucked up, and my grandfather threatened to cut him off if he didn’t try to get help, because he was making life shit for his wife and kids, and he tried to cold turkey, and about a week later, he had this massive stroke. Didn’t make it.”

Enjolras has researched all of this. He’d looked into it before, after a few episodes that had been pretty bad. But in the past couple of days, it’s taken up most of his time. He’s looked into rehab centers, into the process of quitting, of group support. Everything he reads terrifies him, because it seems like the process of quitting can be just about as dangerous as the drinking itself.

“We don’t want that to become you,” he says, rather than the thousands of other thoughts racing through his mind.

Grantaire runs a hand through his dirty, matted hair. “Yeah, me either,” he mutters. He drains down the rest of the glass. His fingers twitch towards the bottle, but he stops, curling his hand into a fist.

“Do you want to quit,” Enjolras asks quietly. He knows they can’t make him. They can talk to him about it all they want. They can ask and beg him until they’re blue in the face, but unless Grantaire wants to stop, it won’t happen.

Grantaire sighs. “No,” he says, and Enjolras’s chest feels too tight. “I mean, I don’t want to be a fucking shit show all the time, and I don’t like waking up in the hospital with a tube down my throat, and, God, the last fucking thing I want is to make all of you waste your time on me like that—“

“It’s not a waste,” Enjolras has to interject. Grantaire finally looks up at him. His skin is still pale, and the circles under his eyes are worse than yesterday. He looks confused. “It’s not a waste, Grantaire,” Enjolras repeats. “You’re our friend. It doesn’t matter what it is, what’s happening. We’re going to be there for you. It’s not a chore. You’d do it for us.”

Grantaire just sort of vaguely nods.

“I’ve,” Enjolras starts. “I know I’ve handled things poorly in the past. Just please, please know that I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were less or—“ He trails off. He doesn’t know how to make it right. He’s said terrible things to Grantaire over the years they’ve known each other. “I’ll try to be better,” he promises. “I just want you to be okay.”

Grantaire’s shoulders drop. “I don’t think even you could fix me,” he says with that self-depreciating smile that Enjolras hates almost as much as the fact that Grantaire is right. He can’t fix him, even though he desperately wants to. He wants to just take Grantaire into his arms, smooth back his hair, whisper that everything will be all right, and then it is. He’s an idealist, surely, but he understands the concept of working hard for the things that you want or that are important, and usually, he’d prefer the hard work to get the results. It always feels like a bigger victory. But not this time. This time he just wants the fairytale. He wants to make a wish and for someone to wave a wand and it all to come true.

But Grantaire is a person, not an object. He can’t just be magically fixed.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can think to say, and he wants to curse himself, because how underwhelming.

“Plenty of more worthwhile causes than me, Apollo,” Grantaire says. “Best you stick to those.”

“I hate when you say things like that,” Enjolras blurts. Grantaire blinks wide, tired eyes at him. “I hate it. You aren’t unworthy. You aren’t less. You aren’t any of the shitty things that your family says about you—that I said. I was wrong, Grantaire. So, so wrong. I just wish I had some way to make you believe that.”

The smile still on Grantaire’s lips is shaking, threatening to slip as he lets out a little huff of laughter. “I don’t believe in anything.”

“You should believe in yourself,” Enjolras says.

“I’d rather believe in you,” he mutters. And something about that, more than anything else, makes Enjolras actually understand it all. He’s sort of been on the edge, knowing that Grantaire looks at him in a way that no one else does, knowing that there’s something there that everyone else is in on, but that he knows but just never bothered to put much thought into.

Grantaire is in love with him. And what’s more, Enjolras might actually—who is he kidding; he’s been besides himself since finding Grantaire half-dead a few days ago—feel some of that in return.

“You shouldn’t,” Enjolras says, his throat feeling too tight. “It wouldn’t be good for you to—to believe in me. I wouldn’t be good for you.” Grantaire’s eyes flash, and Enjolras knows he’s on the same page. He knows what Enjolras is actually saying to him. His jaw is tight, and he’s blinking rapidly.

“I can’t help it,” he says in return. “I know you don’t—I never expected—because why would you?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire looks like he’s been punched in the gut. “But I can’t. I can’t be selfish like that.”

“Selfish,” Grantaire echoes, his brows furrowed.

“This whole thing, it happened because I said something awful to you. And it’s not the first time I’ve done that. And I couldn’t promise that it would be the last. You just—you make me so angry sometimes, and even as I know what I’m saying is wrong and cruel and out of line, I can’t seem to stop myself, and you don’t deserve that. No one does. And to put you through something like this again, I can’t do that to you,” he says, fists clenching at his sides. He hates himself a little bit for all of this.

“What if I don’t care,” Grantaire challenges him, his grip on the counter so tight that his knuckles have gone white. “What if I’m willing to accept it happening again?”

“I’m not,” Enjolras answers. “I can’t do this to you again. I can’t be the reason that you hurt yourself like this, not when I’m supposed to be loving—“ He cuts off suddenly, his jaw closing with an audible click. Grantaire just stares at him, his chest heaving.

“I can’t,” Enjolras finally says after a few moments of too heavy silence. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I—I should go. I’ll call someone else to come stay with you.” And he doesn’t really register as he goes back the apartment, grabbing his bag and shoving in his tablet and collecting his phone and shoes from the bedroom. He should probably wait until Cosette—who is probably the best option; she’s one of Grantaire’s closest friends, and she can be the right flavor of comforting without Courfeyrac’s over dramatics or Éponine’s potentially violent fury—gets there, but the weight of Grantaire’s stare is suffocating, and Enjolras has to leave. The door clicks behind him, and he’s thumbing out the text as he walks down the hall towards the stairs. He pauses at the top, one hand on the railing.

What in the actual hell is he doing?

He discards the text, shoving his phone into his pocket as he spins on his heel and runs back to Grantaire’s apartment. He throws open the door and drops his bag just inside. Grantaire is still standing at the counter, still gripping it like a lifeline and just staring ahead.

“I lied,” Enjolras says, his heart hammering loudly in his chest, and he can feel his face flushing. “I lied. I want to be selfish.”

And then he’s marching around the counter, and his hands reach out to cup Grantaire’s face as he pulls the other in for a firm kiss. Under his lips, Grantaire goes stiff and unmoving. Just when Enjolras is thinking that he’s messed up, that it’s too late and he’s missed the chance, Grantaire presses back. It’s hardly there, a timid pressure against his lips, like he’s not sure that it’s okay. Enjolras eases off a bit, turns the kiss into something gentler as he slides one hand into the tangled mess of Grantaire’s hair. Grantaire’s own hands curl into Enjolras’s shirt, wrinkling the fabric further. Enjolras can feel them shaking against his chest. He gives Grantaire’s lips a final, soft peck before pulling back slightly.

Grantaire’s cheeks are flushed red, his eyes wide and expression screaming of disbelief. Enjolras gives him what he hopes is an encouraging smile, something that reads of the sincerity he’s not entirely sure how to express with words. His thumb moves gently against Grantaire’s cheek, right under his eye where a tear had slipped out.

“You know,” Grantaire says, his voice rough with emotions. “I really should kick you out of here. I should kick your ass. Or call Éponine and have her do it.”

“You probably should,” Enjolras agrees.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, licking his lips, his eyes focused on Enjolras’s mouth. “Yeah, I’m not going to though.”

“Which I do appreciate,” Enjolras says a bit breathlessly.

“I’d really rather just,” Grantaire trails off a bit.

“That’s a much better idea,” Enjolras agrees, and this time Grantaire leans up to kiss him.

They spend the rest of the afternoon sort of lazily making out on the couch in between dozing naps. After lunch, they talk about it, about their feelings and what they expect and want from each other, and they decide to give it a try.

Despite the rocky start, they quickly begin to feel content with everything. It’s not an immediate sort of bliss, and they still have a lot of things they’ll need to work through, but it feels like a significant weight has been lifted off his shoulders.  Enjolras can’t help but think that Grantaire feels right settled into his side, his wild hair tickling against his neck. They both need a shower, but Enjolras isn’t bothered at all. He just wants to sit there, half watching _Braveheart_ and enjoying the feel of Grantaire’s fingers intertwined with his.

They’re left in relative peace until around three that afternoon. The movie is almost over, and Grantaire has fallen asleep again. Enjolras is almost there when the sound of the deadbolt sliding back pulls him from his dozing. He looks up, blinking to clear his eyes, as Éponine, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac walk in. The three stop short at the sight of them on the couch.

Combeferre regards them with a slightly curious gaze and a barely arched brow that tells Enjolras he expects to hear the entirety of this story, along with all of Enjolras’s deepest personal feelings that he wouldn’t feel comfortable sharing with anyone else, at a later time. Éponine’s face is drawn, and Enjolras knows she’s still very mad at him, and her instincts right now are probably screaming for her to yank Grantaire right out of his arms. And Courfeyrac, well, he’s started to bounce around like some kind of demented gerbil, his face making strange spasms as his arms flail around.

Enjolras doesn’t move fast enough to stop his friend from letting out a high pitched squeal. Grantaire shoots straight up, his head connecting with Enjolras’s chin. They both let out curses at the sharp pain. Then Grantaire turns wide eyes to the new arrivals and hisses, “When the fuck did you get here,” as he rubs his head.

Courfeyrac is on top of him in an instant, and Enjolras is a little too busy trying to make sure he’s not bleeding to push him off. Courfeyrac grabs Grantaire’s face in his hands and presses forward until they’re lined up from forehead to the tips of their noses. “I require details,” he demands. “And Combeferre, call Feuilly. We need to consult the books and crown someone a winner.”

Satisfied that he’s not dripping anything that will stain his shirt or the couch, Enjolras asks in a low voice, “Books?”

“Did you bet on us,” Grantaire asks, and although his tone is slightly aghast, it’s also mostly just longsuffering.

“I’m afraid you made it rather easy,” Combeferre says, not looking up from his phone. Enjolras wants to be shocked at him, but he can’t seem to entirely manage.

“I hate all of you,” Grantaire grumbles.

Courfeyrac just clings tighter to him. “Okay, but seriously,” he says. “I have been waiting for this moment for three years. I need details.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trivia: this chapter was supposed to end after the "this is a much better idea," but then I remembered that Courfeyrac is a thing that exists.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, time for something more lighthearted after that roller coaster that was the last three chapters. Additionally, I've decided to not write an intervention chapter. I just don't know enough about them and alcoholism itself to feel comfortable trying to portray that. But I guess know that everyone sat down with Grantaire and made sure he knew they loved him and just want the best for him and will always be there to help him if he needs it.

Debates can always be expected when they’re trying to decide what movies to watch for Marathon Sundays. It’s taken them almost an hour, but they’ve managed to narrow it down to the Disney Renaissance or Star Wars.

“Only the originals,” Feuilly demands, and they all turn to look at Cosette.

It takes her a moment to notice. “What,” she asks, looking a little nervous.

“We’re waiting for you to insist that we watch the new trilogy too,” Bahorel answers.

“Oh, God no,” Cosette exclaims. “Even my tastes aren’t that bad.”

They eventually settle on Disney, and everyone hurries to claim seats. Marius, Cosette, Grantaire, and Enjolras take one couch. Jehan is in Montparnasse’s lap in the arm chair, and Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta have made a nest on the floor with all the spare blankets. Courfeyrac is sprawled out next to them and hogging the biggest bowl of popcorn, and the others have tried their best to squeeze onto the loveseat.

They get through _The Little Mermaid_ easily enough, but on _Beauty and the Beast_ , Montparnasse starts throwing things at Courfeyrac to get him to stop singing along with Belle. “Since when is it a crime to want to skip with the sheep,” he cries, rubbing the back of his head where the beer can had hit. Bossuet slaps him with a pillow.

They take a quick break before putting in _Aladdin_ , and it’s around the time the Cave of Wonders collapses that Courfeyrac suddenly squeezes himself in between Cosette and Grantaire on the couch. “What are you doing,” Enjolras almost snaps.

“This isn’t about you,” Courfeyrac hisses back, tapping both Cosette and Grantaire on their shoulders and motioning them to come closer. They both slip out from under their boyfriends’ arms and tuck themselves into Courfeyrac’s sides. Marius, far used to such things, just lets Cosette go. Enjolras and Grantaire, however, are still a fairly new couple, and Enjolras frowns at the ease with which Grantaire moves away.

Although he is a bit placated by the hand Grantaire reaches back to squeeze his knee with.

Courfeyrac drops his arms around their shoulders and pulls them so that their heads are all bowed together. Cosette and Grantaire’s legs are tangled up on his lap as they whisper. Suddenly, all three jerk their heads around to stare at the loveseat. Enjolras almost jumps, and he wonders briefly if they look more like dogs who’ve caught the scent of a squirrel or like meerkats.

Enjolras follows their line of sight, trying to determine what is so interesting. Feuilly has Bahorel’s head resting on his shoulder, the larger man stretched out enough that it’s squeezed Combeferre and Éponine against the opposite arm of the couch. Éponine has so little room that she’s almost entirely in Combeferre’s lap. His arm is around her waist to keep her from falling over.

Enjolras glances back at the three in the middle of the couch and balks at the looks of utter delight on their faces. What in the world?

It slowly gets more awkward. By the time _Aladdin_ is over, they’ve slithered off the couch, all three with their chins resting on top of the coffee table and just staring. “What are you weirdos—“ Montparnasse starts to ask, but Courfeyrac just shrieks, “NEXT MOVIE.”

Not that on a normal day would _The Lion King_ be so enthralling that he couldn’t look away—although it is an excellently done adaptation of _Hamlet,_ he will admit that, a good first introduction to the work for children; and fine, he also really likes the “I Just Can’t Wait To Be King” song and will probably be singing it in the shower for the next week—Enjolras can’t help but keep his attention focused on the Grantaire, Courfeyrac, and Cosette situation. They’re just sitting there and staring. Practically unblinkingly. It’s almost entirely creepy. And Enjolras is not easily creeped out.

Eventually Jehan crawls down from Montparnasse’s lap and leans over them. “What are you doing,” he whispers.

Cosette grabs him and pulls him down between herself and Courfeyrac. And then she just keeps staring. Jehan follows her gaze, tilts his head, and then suddenly his entire expression lights up. “Oh,” he exclaims, and he falls into the exact same posture as the rest of them.

Enjolras glances back over to the loveseat. Feuilly is giving them all a baffled look. Both Bahorel and Éponine have fallen asleep. Combeferre’s gaze is still focused on the television, but under the glare on his glasses lenses, Enjolras can see the slight twitch in his left eye.

“What in the world is going on,” Enjolras whispers, leaning over towards Marius, who is staring resolutely forward.

“Don’t ask,” he answers back. “That is the best advice I can ever give you with them. Do. Not. Ask.”

Enjolras tries to turn his attentions back to the movie. He really does, but he can’t help dragging his eyes back down to the pile of people at his feet. And he’s really starting to worry now, because Courfeyrac and Jehan are both getting crazy eyes.

Pocahontas is just about to meet John Smith when the tension finally gets to be too much. It ends up being Jehan who cracks. He suddenly just thunders, “I can’t take this anymore!”

Everyone jumps just about clear out of their skins. Bossuet screams and clutches at Musichetta and Joly, Bahorel falls off the couch and lands on Feuilly’s feet, and the only thing that saves Éponine from the same fate is Combeferre’s arms around her. Jehan vaults over the coffee table and all but crawls into Éponine and Combeferre’s laps. Éponine looks startled and slightly terrified, but Combeferre just looks about as ready to punch someone as he ever gets.

“When did this start? Who started it? Where were you when it happened? How did it happen? Are you dating? Why haven’t you told me about this yet? Do you text each other sweet nothings? Let me see your phones,” Jehan demands all in one breath, holding out his hand expectantly.

Éponine and Combeferre’s expressions both fall into matching deadpans, and they turn to look at each other with pointedly arched brows. By now, the three who had started all this have crawled over and are sitting at Combeferre’s feet, staring up with wide eyes. They look like children waiting to hear the end of a fairytale.

Enjolras can’t say for certain that if he were in Combeferre’s place that he wouldn’t kick them.

For his part, Combeferre just keeps his patient attention on Éponine and says, “You’d fallen asleep, and it’s getting late. Want me to walk you home?”

“I can more than kick anyone’s ass who tries anything on me, but sure, nothing wrong with a little company,” she accepts.

"Oh, rest assured, after I drop you off, I'll be running for my apartment. We all know who is actually protecting whom here," Combeferre says, and they both get up, grab their coats, and leave with a pleasant wave directed at the group at large.

“What,” Jehan hollers. “No! That can’t be it! You can’t leave me like this!” And he slips down off the couch, lying on his back and flailing his limbs around like a stuck turtle. Courfeyrac is making noises that sound like a dying seal, and Grantaire and Cosette look heartbroken, like children who have just been told that neither Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny nor the Tooth Fairy are real and also they won’t be getting anything for their birthdays this year.

“Best to never ask and just roll with it all,” Marius says, clapping a hand down on Enjolras’s shoulder before letting Cosette weep into his shirt. 


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry for the longer than usual update, and that it's a short one. i should probably write a formal apology to a lot of different people for this chapter

“OH MY GOD, WHY,” Courfeyrac suddenly screams, causing most of them to jump, Combeferre so badly that his notes go flying out of his hands and his glasses half fall off his face. They turn to see what’s happening, and Courfeyrac has his nose pressed to the screen of his phone.

“What’s up, buddy,” Grantaire asks slowly. Éponine slowly plucks the falling papers from the air and hands them back to Combeferre.

“Lent starts the day before Valentine’s Day,” he whines.

“What,” Cosette barks, scrambling over Marius’s lap and into Courfeyrac’s side. “No,” she gasps at the screen. “This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me.”

“This cannot be the worst thing that has ever happened to you,” Feuilly says wryly.

“The worst thing, Feuilly,” Cosette snaps back. Feuilly holds up his hands defensively and looks questioningly over at Marius.

“The Valentine’s red velvet cake,” Marius explains, and several people let out noises of complaint.

“You aren’t making it,” Bossuet asks aghast, like this is a personal affront to him.

“I can’t eat it,” Cosette says. “No sweets during Lent.”

“But we didn’t give up sweets,” Musichetta tries, Joly nodding vigorously at her side.

Cosette levels them with a sharp glare. “I am not making you a cake that I am not allowed to eat myself,” she says firmly.

“It’s bad enough that it falls over Spring Break and St. Patrick’s Day, but Valentine’s too,” Courfeyrac continues to wail.

“You aren’t dating anyone,” Enjolras says, having not looked up once from the flyers he’s designing. He elbows Grantaire when the other snatches the pen and scribbles something on the page.

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t have plans and also that I wasn’t going to treat myself and enjoy the shit out of some Valentine’s Day red velvet,” he says. Enjolras just hums, now focused on considering whatever change Grantaire made.

“Pretty early this year, isn’t it,” Combeferre asks.

“Super early,” Courfeyrac whines.

“At least you don’t have to go home for Mass with your parents,” he says.

“That’s not much of a comfort considering everything I’m about to lose,” Courfeyrac mutters back. Combeferre pats his shoulder.

“You’re not giving up candy again, are you,” Bahorel asks. “Because you did that one last year, and I think I can speak for the rest of us when I say that was miserable.”

“I gave it up once, I can’t go back,” Courfeyrac says wretchedly. “I didn’t know it was going to be so hard.”

“Really,” Éponine asks dryly. “You couldn’t figure that out? Considering your oral fixation and your need to always have a sucker in your mouth? And don’t you dare say one word about the innuendo.”

“In your endo,” Grantaire mutters, and she, along with Enjolras, slaps the back of his head.

Although the majority of the group was actually raised Catholic, only Courfeyrac and Cosette ever take Lent seriously enough to give anything up. Cosette sticks to the same staple she’s had since she was twelve. She gives up sweets, which means she loses her stress outlet of baking, which means her temper actually has time to come out to play. Courfeyrac had started a long time ago giving up cokes. Then one year he added French fries to the mix. That eventually evolved to be no fast food, which he held onto for a while before the previous year, in which he also gave up candy. And as Bahorel complained, it had been a miserable time for them all as he tried to find something to replace it.

The group goes all out with Mardi Gras that year, and they come home with an offensive amount of beads. Combeferre is all but stumbling under the weight of his collection. He’s a bit of a bead whore and had been in competition with Feuilly over who could get the most. But whereas Feuilly had given his beads away to shy girls or small children—he kept the lace bra he’d been thrown for himself—Combeferre may or may not have tripped a few people to snatch away the better prizes.

Marius is worried about the structural stability of the table when they all unload the beads, and Éponine comments, “Someone could get a butt-load of Pinterest projects done with all this foolishness.”

Fat Tuesday is a day of decadence, so much so that Cosette skips all her classes that day to stay home and cook until she’s completely out of flour and sugar. She brings it all over to Enjolras’s place, and Joly is pretty sure they’re going to slip into a diabetic coma when all is said and done. Although an atheist, Grantaire is also on the Lent train with Courfeyrac and Cosette. He refuses any sort of cold turkey regiment, but he’s made an agreement with Enjolras to give up hard liquor. Since this is the last night he can have it, they all head out for the bar.

At 11:30, Courfeyrac jumps up out of his seat like his pants are on fire. He yells for Cosette, pointing at his watch. She’s up in an instant, grabbing her purse, and her kiss to Marius’s cheek is more of a kind of head butting him and almost sending him tumbling sort of affair. The two run from the bar hand in hand, and the others just shrug and leave them to it.

They make it home a little bit after midnight. Everyone is pleasantly tipsy, and Enjolras resigns himself to yet another night with far too many people draped over the various surfaces in his apartment. Really, it’s nothing too unusual for them.

What is unusual is the sight that awaits them. Courfeyrac and Cosette are sitting in the middle of the living room, various fast food wrappers and leftovers from dinner scattered all around them. Cosette’s fingers are still covered in icing, and Courfeyrac is clutching a half-eaten container of fries to his chest. Both of them are crying with a half empty bottle of cotton candy vodka between them.

“Why,” Courfeyrac laments. “Why do bad things happen to good people?”

Enjolras draws in one long breath and releases it slowly. He reaches down to take Grantaire’s hand, says, “No. I am not dealing with that. We are going to bed,” and pulls Grantaire back to his room.

The two aren’t any less pathetic the next morning, and it takes barely a week for Courfeyrac to make a scene at the bar, yelling that he doesn’t even care what Montparnasse threatens to do to him, he is going to punch Jehan in his adorable nose if Jehan doesn’t stop eating all those (read: the random, singular one Jehan had happened to find in his bag) suckers in front of him. 


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow remember this story? I really will try to get the last two chapters done soon for anyone who still cares about this. also, headcanon that grantaire's first name is remi. i've never sat down to think up names for anyone else, i normally don't like coming up with names that aren't official (which is why bahorel's gf will never be named, just mentioned in passing) but idk that's his

The forecast looks like shit.

Cosette sends a screenshot of her weather app (along with a series of dramatic emoji), and the foreseeable future is all thunderstorms. Combeferre pulls up a more detailed forecast and responds that it looks like a serious downpour is headed their way. Heavy flooding is likely, and so it would be best for them to all make the necessary precautions.

The storm rages for days. "Are we entirely sure this isn't a fucking hurricane," Jehan asks from his blanket burrito on the floor. Éponine drags Gavroche away from the window, which he was pressed up against to watch the lightening dance across the sky.

All schools, pre-k through university are shut down until further notice, and the power lasts for one more day after that. It cuts off right in the middle of Dory telling Marlin that when she's with him, she's home. "Oh, fucking come on," Combeferre yells, throwing a pillow at the blank and uncaring television.

"And how many times have you seen _Finding Nemo_ ," Enjolras asks, watching warily as his tv sways slightly on the stand.

"Irrelevant," Combeferre answers.

Without power, their options for meals become more limited. There is a lot of fruit and raw vegetables and a truly offensive amount of potato chips. "My kingdom for a steak," Grantaire complains, burying his face into Enjolras's side.

"It's not fair," Courfeyrac says, thumbs flying over the screen of his phone. "Cosette's dad's place is on the grid for the firehouse. They were only out overnight. They need to hurry up and clear the roads so she can bring us cake."

"And bacon," Grantaire moans.

"You know we only have so many of those portable chargers," Jehan comments, watching as Courfeyrac taps away the 20% battery warning.

"You can take this phone from me after I'm cold and dead in the ground," Courfeyrac says. "Marius is staying with Cosette. He's staying overnight in the same house as Cosette's father. His live tweets, they are comedy gold. They could make a reality show about these awkward shenanigans. Bury me with this fictional tv show."

The rain starts to let up Thursday morning. It's not finished. It's nowhere near finished, but it's enough to hear themselves think over the roar of falling water against the roof. They check outside and wince at the mess. The streets are completely flooded, the water level high enough that some cars are going to have some serious interior damage. Some trees have lost limbs, and some have completely fallen over.

It isn't too much longer that Grantaire's phone starts lighting up with increasingly frantic texts from Joly. It's fairly standard stuff for a while. Concern about the truant youth playing in the flooded streets, worrying about cell towers being damaged and thus being cut off from additional information both from friends and about town, but then all hell breaks loose when he runs out of tissues. "Oh shit," Grantaire says, and the others all exchange mildly horrified looks. This is unprecedented territory. Joly has never run out of tissues before. The news has recommended boiling any water taken from the tap, as some lines have been damaged in the storm, but with the power out, they can't do that. They also have a limited supply of bottled water, so there isn't any option for Joly to even wash his handkerchiefs.

[Bossuet]: he's using a shirt rn. it's equal parts hilarious and heartbreaking

[Bossuet]: /1 attached image

[Bossuet]: u didn’t get this from me

And hour later, Gavroche is curled up between Courfeyrac and Jehan, both hissing instructions regarding which attacks to use in his current Pokémon battle. Éponine is asleep across Combeferre's lap, and Grantaire, draped over Enjolras, whose fingers are running slowly through his hair, is about two seconds behind her. Enjolras and Combeferre are muttering some ages old discussion over Harry Potter that everyone has heard them have at least three times a year.

Suddenly, a loud voice, obviously amplified by a megaphone calls out, "Rémi Grantaire, please come out to your boyfriend's balcony immediately."

Enjolras startles so violently it sends Grantaire crashing to the floor. Éponine jumps awake, and her forehead smacks the side of Combeferre's face. It takes three grunting attempts, but Jehan gets enough momentum to swing himself up into a sitting position.

"What the hell," Gavroche asks.

They all fumble their way to the balcony door and outside. Looking over the railing, Enjolras deadpans. "Oh my God." Out in the flooded street, sitting in a small canoe, are Bahorel and Feuilly. Bahorel has the megaphone, and he waves wildly at the sight of them. Feuilly grabs at the sides of the rocking canoe. He has on a bright yellow raincoat, the hood pulled up and tight, but they can still see enough of him to know he looks like a half-drowned ginger cat.

Pulling up the megaphone again, Bahorel calls, "Put together an emergency supply bag and get in, loser, we're going to go drinking with the threesome."

"Where did you even get that canoe," Éponine yells down.

"I am a giant bear of a man. Feuilly is a plaid-wearing, bearded ginger," Bahorel says. "Our lumberjack powers combined!" He holds up a fist, probably expecting Feuilly to bump it. He looks like he would rather hit Bahorel with the paddle.

"Pull up to the stairs," Grantaire calls, leaning over the railing. He shoves an ushanka over his unruly hair, and he has on a pair of fishing waders.

"Where did you even get those," Enjolras questions.

Grantaire just grins in response. "I took a few boxes of tissues, a couple of rolls of toilet paper, and my vodka," he informs Combeferre, holding up one of Cosette's floral print bag coolers. "Also half of Éponine's apple ales."

"Shut up, there were only two six packs to begin with," she complains.

"Joly is out of tissues," Grantaire reminds her gravely. "We have no idea the sort of environment I'm about to walk into."

"Pay attention to the radar," Enjolras says, walking Grantaire to the door. He gives him a kiss and a spare charger. "Come back before the next wave hits."

Grantaire salutes and heads out into the elements. The canoe can't make it all the way to the building's door, so he jumps into the water and wades out. "You know," he says, tossing the bag of supplies up at Bahorel, "I kind of thought this thing would look bigger up close. It doesn't. How is it even floating with you in it?"

"It's a fucking death trap," Feuilly grumbles. "If it capsizes because of you two muscled up jocks, I'm commandeering it and leaving you to drown."

Grantaire looks down at himself, then Bahorel, and then back up at Feuilly, and he feels his point is further made when Bahorel lifts him up by the back of the waders and settles him into the canoe with one hand. He is stronger than he looks, he knows that, what with the boxing and fencing and gymnastics, but he is no Bahorel. No one is Bahorel.

The massive bear in question laughs loudly. "Kill us if you must. Enjolras will be disappointed to lose his little cynic, but he fangirls over you enough that he'll probably go off and mourn quietly and sigh at wine bottles for a while. But rest assured, my lady love will come for you with swift vengeance, and she'll laugh as she guts you."

"You talk a really big game about this girlfriend of yours, but no one has ever seen her," Feuilly comments.

"That's because none of you assholes—wait, ok, maybe Cosette and Joly and probably Jehan, but none of you other assholes deserve her," Bahorel retorts.

They get to Musichetta's apartment, and at the sight of Grantaire holding out a box of tissues, Joly cries stuffily, "Oh dank Gob!" Then Grantaire offers Éponine's six pack, and Joly again cries, "Oh dank Gob!" but this time plants a loud, smacking kiss to Grantaire's cheek.

 


End file.
